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SIR  WALTER   SCOTT. 

From  a  Painting  by  Sir  H.   Raeburn,  1808 


THE 

^POETICAL  WORKS . 

OF 

SIR  WALTER  SCOTT 

Baronet 

EDITED,   WITH  A    CAREFUL  REVISION  OF  THE    TEXT 

BY 

WILLIAM    J.    ROLFE 

A.  M.,  Litt.  D. 


JDitft  Illustration^ 


BOSTON  AND   NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON,   MIFFLIN  AND   COMPANY 

C&e  Etoermiic  Jgteafit,  Cambrttffe 

1899 


71 


Copyright,  1887, 
By  Ticknor  and  Company. 


All  rights  reserved. 


•  •  *  •  •  • 


PUBLISHERS'  NOTE, 

The  present  edition  of  Scott's  Poems  was  published  in  1887  in  a 
more  bulky  and  expensive  form.  In  reissuing  it  now  in  smaller 
compass  and  at  a  reduced  price,  the  Publishers  desire  to  call  attention 
to  two  features  which,  in  their  judgment,  render  the  book  exception- 
ally worthy  of  attention.  The  text  of  the  poems  represents  very 
close  and  careful  study  on  the  part  of  the  scrupulous  editor,  and 
may  be  accepted  as  the  most  satisfactory  complete  text  in  existence. 
The  illustrations,  executed  at  the  time  when  the  art  of  wood-engrav- 
ing may  be  said  to  have  reached  its  culmination  in  the  United  States, 
are  not  careless  random  sketches,  evolved  for  the  most  part  from 
the  brain  of  the  designer,  but  are  really  in  the  nature  of  notes  to  the 
poems,  since  they  are  for  the  most  part  actual  studies  of  Scottish 
scenery  and  life,  the  artist  having  visited  the  localities  of  the  poems 
for  the  purpose  of  securing  somewhat  of  the  same  fidelity  to  nature 
which  Scott  himself  aimed  at,  in  his  recourse  to  history  and  legend. 

Boston,  February,  1899. 


2244611 


PREFACE. 


The  aim  in  this  edition  of  Scott's  Poems 
has  been  to  give  a  correct  text,  with  such 
portions  of  Scott's  notes  as  are  likely  to  be 
useful  or  interesting  to  the  general  reader, 
and.  with  fuller  and  better  pictorial  illustra- 
tions than  are  to  be  found  in  any  former 
edition.  The  volume  contains  all  the  poems 
(not  the  plays,  which  are  seldom,  if  ever,  read 
nowadays,  unless  as  mere  literary  curiosi- 
ties), with  the  exception  of  a  few  bits  of 
personal  or  occasional  verse  which  Scott  him- 
self would  never  have  printed,  and  which  are 
not  worth  preserving.  The  original  contributions  to  the  Border  Minstrelsy 
are  included,  except  Scott's  portion  of  Thomas  the  Rhymer  (the  Third  Part 
only),  which  could  not  well  be  separated  from  the  rest.  Of  the  Songs 
scattered  through  the  novels  and  plays,  the  best  of  such  as  are  compara- 
tively independent  of  the  context  are  given,  together  with  all  the  poetical 
mottoes  written  by  Scott  himself  for  the  heading  of  chapters. 

The  text  of  all  the  editions,  English  or  American,  published  during  the 
last  fifty  years,  is  more  or  less  corrupt.  I  do  not  except  that  of  Lockhart, 
who  very  rarely  corrected  an  error  in  Scott's  editions,  while  he  allowed 
many  slips  made  by  his  own  printers  to  pass  undetected.  In  the  prefaces 
to  the  "  Students'  Edition  "  of  the  Lady  of  the  Lake  and  Marmion,  I  have 
quoted  examples  of  these  corruptions,  some  of  which  are  almost  incredibly 
bad.     Marmion,  as  I  have  shown,  was  never  printed  correctly  until  I  edited 


viii  PREFACE. 


it,  sundry  misprints  in  the  first  edition  having  been  overlooked  by  Scott  and 
by  all  his  commentators  and  critics.  This  is  the  more  amazing,  inasmuch  as 
the  passages  in  which  the  errors  occurred  became  utterly  nonsensical. 

In  carefully  collating  the  text  of  all  the  other  long  poems  with  that  of 
the  earliest  editions  I  have  been  able  to  obtain  (I  have  not  always  succeeded 
in  getting  hold  of  the  first  edition),  I  have  found  corruptions  quite  as  bad 
as  those  in  the  Lady  and  Marmion.  In  the  minor  poems  I  have  met  with 
comparatively  few  of  these  inaccuracies. 

The  punctuation  has  been  revised  throughout,  in  accordance  with  the 
best  recent  usage,  thousands  of  the  superfluous  points  with  which  former 
editions  are  so  plentifully  besprinkled  having  been  deleted. 

In  abridging  Scott's  voluminous  notes  (they  have  been  merely  abridged 
without  alteration  of  the  portions  retained),  I  have  omitted  nothing  which 
the  reader  who  turns  to  them  for  explanation  or  illustration  of  the  text  is 
likely  to  miss.  That  the  longer  notes  have  been  little  read,  is  evident  from 
the  fact  that  Lockhart's  accidental  dropping  of  a  whole  page  from  one  in 
the  Lady  in  1833,  which  destroyed  the  sense  by  uniting  the  fragments  of 
two  independent  sentences,  was  not  observed,  or  at  least  not  pointed  out, 
until  I  called  attention  to  it  in  1883. 

The  Glossary  contains  all  the  words  explained  in  Scott's  shorter  notes, 
with  a  few  additions  of  my  own. 

The  engravings  may  be  trusted  to  speak  for  themselves.  Whether  for 
beauty  or  for  .accuracy,  they  may  challenge  comparison  with  anything  that 
has  appeared  in  former  editions  on  either  side  of  the  Atlantic. 


W.  J.  R. 


Page 

THE  LAY  OF  THE  LAST  MINSTREL  i 

Introduction 3 

Canto  First 5 

Canto  Second    ........  ii 

Canto  Third 21 

Canto  Fourth 28 

Canto  Fifth 38 

Canto  Sixth 48 

MARMION 59 

Introduction  to  Canto  First.    .    .  61 
To  William  Stewart  Rose,  Esq. 

Canto  First.    The  Castle    . 


Introduction  to  Canto  Second  .    . 
To  the  Rev.  John  Marriot,  a.  m. 

Canto  Second.    The  Convent  .    . 

Introduction  to  Canto  Third    .    . 
To  William  Erskine,  Esq. 

Canto  Third.      The    Hostel,    or 
Inn 

Introduction  to  Canto  Fourth 
To  James  Skene,  Esq. 

Canto  Fourth.    The  Camp   . 

Introduction  to  Canto  Fifth 
To  George  Ellis,  Esq. 

Canto  Fifth.    The  Court    . 

Introduction  to  Canto  Sixth 
To  Richard  Heber,  Esq. 

Canto  Sixth.    The  Battle  . 


64 
74 

76 
86 

88 
98 


"3 

128 

130 


Page 

THE  LADY   OF  THE  LAKE  .     . 

.      149 

Canto  First.    The  Chase    .    . 

•      ISI 

Canto  Second.    The  Island    . 

.      169 

Canto  Third.    The  Gathering 

.      187 

Canto  Fourth.    The  Prophecy 

203 

Canto  Fifph.    The  Combat    . 

217 

Canto  Sixth.    The  Guard-Room 

f    233 

THE  VISION  OF  DON  RODERICK 

251 

Introduction 

253 

The  Vision  .    . 

2.SS 

Conclusion  .    . 

266 

ROKEBY     .    .    . 

271 

Canto  First 



273 

Canto  Second 

282 

Canto  Third 

291 

Canto  Fourth 

301 

Canto  Fifth 

310 

Canto  Sixth 

322 

THE  BRIDAL  OF  TRIERMAIN 

335 

Introduction 

337 

Canto  First     . 

339 

Canto  Second 

343 

Canto  Third 

•    354 

Conclusion  .    . 

364 

THE  LORD  OF  THE  ISLES 

•    365 

Canto  First 

■    367 

Canto  Second 

.     .    .    . 

•    376 

CONTENTS. 


Page 
THE  LORD  OF  THE  ISLES. 

Canto  Third 383 

Canto  Fourth 391 

Canto  Fifth 400 

Canto  Sixth .    .  409 

Conclusion 420 

THE  FIELD  OF  WATERLOO     .    .  421 

The  Field  of  Waterloo    ....  423 

Conclusion 430 

HAROLD  THE  DAUNTLESS  ...  433 

Introduction 435 

Canto  First 436 

Canto  Second 441 

Canto  Third 445 

Canto  Fourth 450 

Canto  Fifth 454 

Canto  Sixth 459 

Conclusion 464 

BALLADS,  TRANSLATED  OR  IMI- 
TATED, FROM  THE  GERMAN,  etc.  465 

William  and  Helen 467 

The  Wild  Huntsman 470 

The  Fire-King 472 

Frederick  and  Alice 475 

The  Battle  of  Sempach 475 

The  Noble  Moringer    ......  477 

The  Erl-King 481 

BALLADS 482 

V  Glenfinlas :  or,  Lord  Ronald's  Coro- 
nach       ,     .     .     .     .  482 

The  Eve  of  Saint  John      .     .     .     .    .  486 

Cadyow  Castle     . 488 

MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS  .    .    .     .492 

The  Violet 492 

To  a  Lady 492 

The  Bard's' Incantation 492 

Hellvellyn 493 

The  Dying  Bard 494 

The  Norman  Horse-Shoe     ....  494 

The  Maid  of  Toro 494 

The  Palmer      .    . 495 


Page 
MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

The  Maid  of  Neidpath 495 

Wandering  Willie 496 

Hunting  Song 496 

Song 497 

The  Resolve 497 

Epitaph  designed  for  a  Monument  in 
Lichfield  Cathedral,  at  the  Burial- 
Place  of  the  Family  of  Miss  Seward    498 
Prologue  to   Miss   Baillie's   Play  of 
"  The  Family  Legend  "    ....     498 

The  Poacher 498 

The  Bold  Dragoon ;  or,  The  Plain  of 

Badajos 501 

On  the  Massacre  of  Glencoe     .     .     .     501 
Song  for  the  Anniversary  Meeting  of 

the  Pitt  Club  of  Scotland  ....     502 
Lines  addressed  to  Ranald  Macdon- 

ald,  Esq.,  of  Staffa 502 

Pharos  Loquitur 503 

Letters  in  Verse  on  the  Voyage  with 
the    Commissioners    of    Northern 

Lights 503 

Farewell  to  Mackenzie,  High  Chief 

of  Kintail 505 

Imitation  of  the  preceding  Song    .     .     506 
War- Song  of  Lachlan,  High  Chief  of 

Maclean 506 

Saint  Cloud 507 

The  Dance  of  Death 507 

Romance  of  Dunois 508 

The  Troubadour 509 

From  the  French 509 

Song  on  the  Lifting  of  the  Banner  of 
the  House  of  Buccleuch,  at  a  great 
Foot-Ball  Match  on  Carterhaugh    .     509 
Tullaby  of  an  Infant  Chief    ....     511 

The  Return  to  Ulster 511 

Jock  of  Hazeldean 512 

Pibroch  of  Donald  Dhu 512 

Nora's  Vow 512 

MacGregor's  Gathering 513 

Verses  composed  for  the  Occasion, 
adapted  to  Haydn's  Air,  "  God  save 
the  Emperor  Francis,"  and  sung  by 
a  select  Band  after  the  Dinner  given 
by  the  Lord  Provost  of  Edinburgh 
to  the  Grand  Duke  Nicholas  of 
Russia,  and  his  Suite,  19th  De- 
cember, 1816 513 


CONTENTS. 


XI 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 


Page 


The  Search  for  Happiness ;  or,  The 

Quest  of  Sultaun  Solimaun    .     .     .  514 

Lines  written  for  Miss  Smith    .     .     .  518 
Mr.  Kemble's  Farewell  Address  on 

taking  Leave  of  the  Edinburgh  Stage  519 

The  Sun  upon  the  Weirdlaw  Hill      .  519 

The  Monks  of  Bangor's  March     .     .  510 

Epilogue  to  the  Appeal 520 

Mackrimmon's  Lament 520 

Donald  Caird  's  come  again  ....  521 

Epitaph  on  Mrs.  Erskine 521 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


Page 


On  Ettrick  Forest's  Mountains  Dun  . 

The  Maid  of  Isla 

Farewell  to  the  Muse 

The  Bannatyne  Club 

Epilogue  to  the  Drama  founded  on 

"  Saint  Ronan's  Well  "      .... 

Epilogue     .     .     .     .     % 

The  Death  of  Keeldar 525 

The  Foray 526 

Inscription  for  the  Monument  of  the 

Rev.  George  Scott 526 


522 
522 
522 
523 

524 

525 


APPENDIX. 


JUVENILE  LINES 529 

From  Virgil 529 

On  a  Thunder- Storm 529 

On  the  Setting  Sun 529 


SONGS  FROM  THE  NOVELS 


529 


Saint  Swithin's  Chair 529 

Flora  Maclvor's  Song 530 

Twist  Ye,  Twine  Ye 530 

Proud  Maisie 531 

Lucy  Ashton's  Song 531 

Ancient  Gaelic  Melody     ......  531 

The  Orphan  Maid 531 

The  Barefooted  Friar 532 

Rebecca's  Hymn 532 

Funeral  Hymn 532 

On  Tweed  River 533 

To  the  Sub-Prior 533 

Border  Ballad 533 

Claude  Halcro's  Song  ......  534 

Song  of  Harold  Harfager     .     .     .     .  534 

Song  of  the  Zetland  Fisherman      .     .  534 

Cleveland's  Songs    . 535 

County  Guy 535 

Soldier,  Wake  ! 535 

The  Truth  of  Woman 535 

An  Hour  with  Thee 536 

The  Lay  of  Poor  Louise 536 

Song  of  the  Glee-Maiden 536 


SONGS  FROM  THE  PLAYS 


537 


The  Sun  upon  the  Lake   .     .     .     .     .  537 

Admire  not  that  I  Gained  .     .     .  537 

When  the  Tempest 537 

Bonny  Dundee 537 


SONGS  FROM  THE  PLAYS. 

When  Friends  are  Met 538. 

Hither  we  Come 538 


FRAGMENTS     .     .     .     . 

U  The  Gray  Brother    .     . 

Bothwell  Castle  .     .     . 

The  Shepherd's  Tale    . 

Cheviot 

The  Reiver's  Wedding 


MOTTOES   FROM  THE  NOVELS 

From  The  Antiquary 

"  The  Black  Dwarf    .... 

"      Old  Mortality 

'•      Rob  Roy 

"  The  Heart  of  Mid- Lothian  . 

"  The  Bride  of  Lammermoor 

"  The  Legend  of  Montrose    . 

"      Ivanhoe      . 

"      The  Monastery 

"      The  Abbot 

"  Kenilworth     ...... 

"      The  Pirate 

"  The  Fortunes  of  Nigel    .     . 

"  Peveril  of  the  Peak      .     .     . 

"  Quentin  Durward    .... 

"  Saint  Ronan's  Well    .     .     . 

"  The  Betrothed    ..... 

"  The  Talisman     .     .     .*  .     . 

"      Woodstock 

"  Chronicles  of  the  Canongate 

"  The  Fair  Maid  of  Perth      . 

"  Anne  of  Geierstein      .     .     . 

"  Count  Robert  of  Paris    .     . 

"  Castle  Dangerous  .... 


539 

539 
54o 
54o 
543 

543 

545. 
545 
546 
547 
547 
547 
548 
548 
548 
549 
55'o 
55* 
552 
553 
555 
556 
556 
557 
557 
558 
559 
559 
559 
560 

56i 


Xll 


CONTENTS. 


NOTES. 


Page 

The  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel  .    ...     .  565 

Marmion 578 

The  Lady  of  the  Lake 594 

The  Vision  of  Don  Roderick 602 

Rokeby 604 

The  Bridal  of  Triermain 612 

The  Lord  of  the  Isles 615 


PAGi 

The  Field  of  Waterloo 62; 

Harold  the  Dauntless 624 

Ballads  from  the  German,  etc 624 

Ballads 62C 

Miscellaneous  Poems 62c 

Mottoes  from  the  Novels 632 


Glossary 635 

Index 641 


LIST    OF    ILLUSTRATIONS. 


Drawn,  engraved,  and  printed  under  the  supervision  of  A.  V.  S.  Anthony. 


Page 
Sir  Walter  Scott,  from  a  painting  by 
Sir  H.  Raeburn,  1808   ....  Frontispiece. 

Vignette.     Portrait  of  Sir  Walter  Scott  .  vii 

Tailpiece viii 

Headpiece ix 

Tailpiece xii 

Headpiece xiii 

Tailpiece xx 

Half  Title.     The  Lay  of  the  Last 

Minstrel 1 

Vignette.    A  Harp 2 

"  The  minstrel  was  infirm  and  old  "...  3 

Branksome  Turrets 4 

"  The  tables  were  drawn,  it  was  idlesse  all "  5 

Naworth  Castle 6 

"  Hung  Margaret  o'er  her  slaughtered  sire, 

And  wept  in  wild  despair  " 7 

The  Spirit  of  the  Fell 8 

"  A  fancied  moss-trooper,  the  boy 

The  truncheon  of  a  spear  bestrode  "  .    .  9 


Page 
"  Cliffs  which  for  many  a  later  year 

The  warbling  Doric  reed  shall  hear  "     .     .  11 

Melrose  Abbey 12 

"  Again  on  the  knight  looked  the  church-  . 

man  old " 13 

LlDDESDALE 14 

A  Corner  in  the  Abbey 14 

Eildon  Hills 15 

The  Secret  Nook 16 

"The  light  broke  forth  so  gloriously"  .    .  17 

"  Smiled  Branksome  towers  and  Teviot's 

tide" 18 

"  The  knight  and  ladye  fair  are  met  "     .     .  19 

"  The  Baron's  dwarf  his  courser  held  "  .     .  20 

"  The  meeting  of  these  champions  proud 

Seemed  like  the  bursting  thunder-cloud"  .  21 

"  '  Man  of  age,  thou  smitest  sore  ! '  "      .     .  23 

"  The  speaker  issued  from  the  wood, 

And  checked  his  fellow's  surly  mood  "  .     .  24 


• 

xiv                                         LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 

Page 

Page 

"  '  I  think  our  work  is  well  begun, 

"  Was  spread  the  gorgeous  festival  "     .     . 

50 

When  we  have  taken  thy  father's  son  '  "    . 

24 

"  At  unawares  he  wrought  him  harm  "  .     . 

5i 

"  E'en  the  rude  watchman  on  the  tower 
Enjoyed  and  blessed  the  lovely  hour  "   .     . 

25 

"  Naworth's  iron  towers  " 

52 

"  Fair  Margaret,  from  the  turret  head, 

"  And  pensive  read  from  tablet  eburnine  " 

53 

Heard  far  below  the  coursers'  tread  "     .     . 

27 

"  Thy  pride  and  sorrow,  fair  Kirkwall  "     . 

54 

u  The  peel's  rude  battlement  " 

29 

"  Just  where  the  page  had  flung  him  down  " 

55 

"  They  crossed  the  Liddel  at  curfew  hour, 

"  With  naked  foot  and  sackcloth  vest, 

And  burned  my  little  lonely  tower  "... 

30 

And  arms  enfolded  on  his  breast  "... 

56 

A  Gate  at  Branksome 

3i 

"  The  holy  fathers,  two  and  two, 

"  But  faster  still  a  cloth-yard  shaft 

In  long  procession  came  " 

57 

Whistled  from  startled  Tinlinn's  yew  " .     . 

32 

Branksome   

58 

*  Rides  forth  the  hoary  seneschal  "... 

33 

Half  Title.    Marmion    .  - 

59 

44  He  ceased  —  and  loud  the  boy  did  cry  "  . 

34 

Vignette.    A  Loophole 

60 

Ruberslaw 

35 

Headpiece  to  Introduction    .... 

61 

"  The  purs ui van t-at-arms  again 

u  Day  set  on  Norham's  castled  steep  "  .     . 

65 

Before  the  castle  took  his  stand  "... 

36 

"  Along  the  bridge  Lord  Marmion  rode  "  . 

66 

Kelso  Abbey 

37 

Bosworth  Field 

67 

41  Now  squire  and  knight,  from  Branksome 

"  Two  pursuivants,  whom  tabarts  deck, .  .  . 

sent" 

39 

Stood  on  the  steps  of  stone  "     .     .     .     . 

68 

*  But  yet  on  Branksome's  towers  and  town, 

"  A  mighty  wassail-bowl  he  took, 

In  peaceful  merriment,  sunk  down 

And  crowned  it  high  with  wine  "... 

69 

The  sun's  declining  ray  " 

40 

"  What  time  we  razed  old  Ayton  tower  "  . 

70 

"  She  gazed  upon  the  inner  court  "... 

41 

"  And  fronted  Marmion  where  he  sate  "     . 

73 

"  He  walks  through  Branksome's  hostile 

towers" 

42 

Headpiece  to  Introduction     .... 

74 

"  Himself,  the  Knight  of  Deloraine,  .  .  . 

Tailpiece  to  Introduction 

76 

In  armor  sheathed  from  top  to  toe  "   .     . 

43 

*  Where,   from  high   Whitby's   cloistered 

The  Herald's  Trumpet 

44 

pile" 

77 

**  'T  is  done,  't  is  done  !  that  fatal  blow  "    . 

45 

"  She  sate  upon  the  galley's  prow, 

"  She  took  fair  Margaret  by  the  hand  " 

46 

And  seemed  to  mark  the  waves  below  "     , 

79 

■"  Hence,  to  the  field  unarmed  he  ran  "  .     . 

47 

"  Answering  from  the  sandy  shore  "... 

80 

"  '  I  'd  give  the  lands  of  Deloraine, 

LlNDISFARNE   ABBEY 

81 

Dark  Musgrave  were  alive  again  '  "  .     .     . 

48 

"  And  there  she  stood  so  calm  and  pale  "  . 

83 

u  The  minstrels  came,  at  festive  call  "    .     . 

49 

Tailpiece 

85 

LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


xv 


Page 
86 


Headpiece  to  Introduction    .    . 

Tailpiece  to  Introduction 88 

I  The  village   inn  seemed  large,   though 


rude 


"  By  glen  and  streamlet  winded  still, 
Where  stunted  birches  hid  the  rill  "  .     . 

"  And  viewed  around  the  blazing  hearth 
His  followers  mix  in  noisy  mirth  "     .     . 


89 


90 


9' 


Loch  Vennachar 92 

Dunfermline  Abbey 93 


"  In  moonbeam  half,  and  half  in  gloom, 
Stood  a  tall  form  with  nodding  plume  " 


95 


Tailpiece 97 

Headpiece  to  Introduction    ....    98 

Tailpiece  to  Introduction  ...         .100 

The  Camp 101 

"  Through  Humbie's  and  through  Saltoun's 

wood  " 102 

"  Down  from  his  horse  did  Marmion  spring 
Soon  as  he  saw  the  Lion-King  "    .     .     .     .  103 

"  Where  Crichtoun  Castle  crowns  the  bank  "  105 

"  Full  on  his  face  the  moonbeam  strook  !  "  107 

"  Blackford !  on  whose  uncultured  breast . . . 

A  truant-boy,  I  sought  the  nest "  .     .     .     .108 

"  Where  the  huge  Castle  holds  its  state  "  .  109 

Headpiece  to  Introduction    .    .    .    .111 

Tailpiece  to  Introduction 112 

Dun  Edin 113 

"  Next,  Marmion  marked  the  Celtic  race  "  .  114 
"  Old  Holy-Rood  rung  merrily  "... 


'$  The  monarch  o'er  the  siren  hung, 
And  beat  the  measure  as  she  sung  "  . 

"  On  Derby  Hills  the  paths  are  steep. 
In  Ouse  and  Tvne  the  fords  are  deep 


15 


117 


10 


"  The  antique  buildings,  climbing  high 

"  At  night  in"  secret  there  they  came, 
The  Palmer  and  the  holy  dame  "     .    . 

"  North  Berwick's  town  and  lofty  Law 

"  Then  took  the  squire  her  rein, 
And  gently  led  away  her  steed  "  .     . 

Tailpiece 


Headpiece  to  Introduction    .    . 

Tailpiece  to  Introduction     .    . 

"  Tantallon's  dizzy  steep 
Hung  o'er  the  margin  of  the  deep  " 

"  It  chanced  a  gliding  sail  she  spied  " 

•  Wilton  himself  before  her  stood  !  " 

"  The  rest  were  all  in  Twisel  glen  " 

"  The  steed  along  the  drawbridge  flies 
Just  as  it  trembled  on  the  rise  "  .     . 

" '  Lord  Angus,  thou  hast  lied ! ' "    . 

"  The  Till  by  Twisel  Bridge  "      .     . 

"  ■  Here,  by  this  cross,'  he  gently  said 

Flodden  Field   


"  With  dying  hand  above  his  head 
He  shook  the  fragment  of  his  blade, 
And  shouted  '  Victory  ! '  "    .     .     . 


"  There  erst  was  martial  Marmion.  found 

Tailpiece 

Vignette.     A  Broken  Harp  .... 

Half  Title.    The  Lady  of  the  Lake 

Vignette     

Glenartney     

Saint  Fillan's  Hill 

"  The  wild  heaths  of  Uam-Var  "      .     . 

The  Brigg  of  Turk  (from  the  North) 

"  Boon  nature  scattered,  free  and  wild, 
Each  plant  or  flower,  the  mountain's  child 


5S 


XVI 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


Page 

Page 

"  In  the  deep  Trosachs'  wildest  nook  "     . 

I56 

Scotch  Harebells 

»73 

[Benvenue,  from  the  Trosachs'  road.] 

Loch  Lomond  and  Ben  Lomond  .     . 

*73 

"  The  rocky  summits,  split  and  rent, 

v 

[From  Balloch.] 

Formed  turret,  dome,  or  battlement "  .     . 

157 

[Ben-an,  from  the  Trosachs'  road.] 

"  Bracklinn's  thundering  wave  "  .     .     .     . 

174 

"  A  narrow  inlet,  still  and  deep  "... 

158 

"  And,  bearing  downwards  from  Glengyle, 

Steered  full  upon  the  lonely  isle  "... 

175 

"  And  now,  to  issue  from  the  glen, 

No  pathway  meets  the  wanderer's  ken  "  . 

158 

"  And  near,  and  nearer  as  they  rowed, 

Distinct  the  martial  ditty  flowed  "... 

176 

The  Lady  of  the  Lake 

159 

[Brianchoil  Point.] 

"  High  on  the  south,  huge  Benvenue 

Glen  Luss 

177 

Down  to  the  lake  in  masses  threw  "     .     . 

160 

"  With  all  her  joyful  female  band 

[The  eastern  end  of  Loch  Katrine.] 

Had  Lady  Margaret  sought  the  strand  "  . 

178 

"  From  underneath  an  aged  oak 

"  And,  at  her  whistle,  on  her  hand 

That  slanted  from  the  islet  rock  "... 

160  . 

The  falcon  took  his  favorite  stand  "     .     . 

179 

[The  landing  at  Ellen's  Isle.  —  Loch  Katrine 

] 

Inchmahone  Island,  Lake  Menteith 

180 

"  In  listening  mood,  she  seemed  to  stand, 

The  guardian  Naiad  of  the  strand  "     .    . 

l6l 

"  '  Short  be  my  speech ;  —  nor  time  affords, 

Nor  my  plain  temper,  glozing  words  '  "     . 

181 

"  His  stately  mien  as  well  implied 

A  high-born  heart,  a  martial  pride  "      .     . 

162 

"'  Hear  my  blunt  speech:  grant  me  this 
maid 

"  This  lake's  romantic  strand  "••     .     .     . 

163 

To  wife,  thy  counsel  to  mine  aid  '  "  .     .     . 

182 

[The  Silver  Strand.  —  Loch  Katrine.] 

"  With  stalwart  grasp  his  hand  he  laid 

"  He  crossed  the  threshold,  —  and  a  clang 

On  Malcolm's  breast  and  belted  plaid  "    . 

183 

Of  angry  steel  that  instant  rang  "... 

164 

"  Young  Malcolm  answered,  calm  and  bold" 

184 

"  Dame  Margaret  heard  with  silence  grave  " 

165 

"  Then  plunged  he  in  the  flashing  tide  "  . 

185 

"  For  all  around,  the  walls  to  grace, 

Hung  trophies  of  the  fight  or  chase  "  .     . 

166 

Benvenue.  —  From  Ellen's  Isle .... 

186 

"  The  hall  was  cleared, —  the  stranger's  bed 

"  The  gray  mist  left  the  mountain-side  "   . 

187 

Was  there  of  mountain  heather  spread  "  . 

167 

[Benvenue,  from  the  Silver  Strand.] 

"  At  length,  with  Ellen  in  a  grove 

"  Brian  the  Hermit  by  it  stood  "  .     .     .     . 

188 

He  seemed  to  walk  and  speak  of  love  "    . 

168 

"  All  night,  in  this  sad  glen,  the  maid 

Tailpiece.     Bagpipes    ....... 

168 

Sat  shrouded  in  her  mantle's  shade  "    .     . 

189 

Ellen's  Isle 

169 

"  '  Woe  to  the  clansman  who  shall  view 

"  Upon  a  rock  with  lichens  wild, 

This  symbol  of  sepulchral  yew  '  "     ...     . 

190 

Beside  him  Ellen  sat  and  smiled  "... 

170 

"  Ben-an's  gray  scalp  the  accents  knew  " 
[Ben-an,  from  Loch  Katrine.] 

I9I 

"  He  parts,  —  the  maid,  unconscious  still, 

Watched  him  wind  slowly  round  the  hill " 

171 

"  And  the  gray  pass  where  birches  wave 

On  Beala-nam-bo  " 

192 

"  Soothing  she  answered  him  :  '  Assuage, 

Mine  honored  friend,  the  fears  of  age  '  "  . 

172 

"  '  Speed,  Malise,  speed ! '  " 

193 

LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


xvn 


"  Duncraggan's  huts  appear  at  last  "   .     . 

u  All  stand  aghast :  —  unheeding  all, 
The  henchman  bursts  into  the  hall "    .     . 

"  Swoln    was    the    stream,    remote     the 
bridge" 

In  Leny  Pass 

Ruins  of  the  Chapel  of  Saint  Bride 

Loch  Lubnaig 

The  Braes  of  Balquidder      .... 

Loch  Voil 

Loch  Con    

"  And  called  the  grot  the  Goblin  Cave  "  . 

Lanrick  Heights 

[From  Lanrick  Mead.] 


Loch  Vennachar    .    . 
[From  Bochastle  Hill.] 


Page 
194 

195 

r95 
196 
197 
198 
199 
200 
20I 
201 
202 

203 


Up  Glenfinlas 204 


I '  But  see,  who  comes  his  news  to  show  ! 
Malise  !  what  tidings  of  the  foe  ? '"      .     . 


Ruins  of  Doune  Castle     .    . 
[From  the  Ardoch.] 

I  *  Sooth  was  my  prophecy  of  fear  ; 
Believe  it  when  it  augurs  cheer '  " 


Singing  Birds 


"  \  Ellen,  thy  hand  —  the  ring  is  thine ; 
Each  guard  and  usher  knows  the  sign  '  "  . 

Old   Bridge  between   Loch  Achray 
and  Loch  Vennachar 

"  Now  wound  the  path  its  dizzy  ledge 
Around  a  precipice's  edge "     .     .     .     .     . 


"  '  Stranger,  it  is  in  vain  ! '  she  cried  "  . 

"  With  cautious  step  and  ear  awake, 
He  climbs  the  crag  and  threads  the  brake 

"  Till,  as  a  rock's  huge  point  he  turned, 
A  watch-fire  close  before  him  burned  " 


Tailpiece.    A  Harp 


205 
206 


207 
208 

209 


212 
213 

214 

21S 
216 


Page 


"At  length  they  came  where,  stern  and 

steep, 
The  hill  sinks  down  upon  the  deep  "    .    . 
[The  road  between  Duncraggan  and  Lanrick. 


Doune  Castle 

[From  the  River  Teith.] 

The  Old  Bridge  at  Callander     .    . 

"  '  Come  one,  come  all !  this  rock  shall  fly 
From  its  firm  base  as  soon  as  I '  "  .     .     . 


217 


218 


"  On  Bochastle  the  mouldering  lines  " 

"  '  For  this  is  Coilantogle  ford, 

And  thou  must  keep  thee  with  thy  sword  ' " 

Coilantogle  Ford 

"  111  fared  it  then  with  Roderick  Dhu  "     . 

"  Unbonneted,  and  by  the  wave 

Sat  down  his  brow  and  hands  to  lave  "     . 


Torry .     . 
Deanstown 


"  Gray  Stirling,  with  her  towers  and  town, 
Upon  their  fleet  career  looked  down  "  .    . 

The  Gate.  —  Stirling  Castle 

Ladies'  Rock.  —  Stirling  Castle    .    .    . 

"  Needs  but  a  buffet  and  no  more  "      .     . 

Tailpiece 

"Through    narrow    loop    and    casement 

barred, 
The  sunbeams  sought  the  Court  of  Guard  " 

"  At  length  up  started  John  of  Brent  "     . 

"  Boldly  she  spoke  :    '  Soldiers,  attend  ! '  " 

"  She  bade  her  slender  purse  be  shared  " . 

Entrance  to  Roderick   Dhu's  Dun- 
•    geon     

"  *  Who  fought  ?  —  who  fled  ?  —  Old  man, 
be  brief" 

"  Where  shall  he  find,  in  foreign  land, 
So  lone  a  lake,  so  sweet  a  strand  I "     .     . 


222 
223 

224 

225 
226 
226 

227 
228 
229 
231 

232 

233 
234 
235 
237 


239 


240 


XV111 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


Page 

"  For  life  !  for  life !  their  flight  they  ply  "  .  241 

"  That  deep  and  doubling  pass  within  "    .  242 
[The  Pass  of  Beal-an-duine.] 

"  ■  Behold  yon  isle  !  — 

See  !  none  are  left  to  guard  its  strand  '  "  .  243 

The  Teith  at  Callander 244 

'.'  'T  was  from  a  turret  that  o'erhung 

Her  latticed  bower,  the  strain  was  sung  "  245 

"  On  many  a  splendid  garb  she  gazed,  — 

Then  turned  bewildered  and  amazed  "      .  246 

"  Then  forth  the  noble  Douglas  sprung, 

And  on  his  neck  his  daughter  hung  "  .     .  247 

"  Down  kneeled  the  Graeme  to  Scotland's 

Lord" 248 

The  Chain  of  Gold 248 

Tailpiece.  —  Ben  Lomond,  from  Luss    .  249 

Vignette.  —  Loch  Lomond  Gulls  .     .     .  250 

Half  Title.    The  Vision  of  Don  Rod- 
erick      251 

Vignette 252 

"  Castles  and  towers,  in  due  proportion 

each" 257 

"  By  day  the  invaders  ravaged  hill   and 

dale" 263 

Talavera 265 

"  And  Lisbon's  matrons  from  their  walls  "  267 

Tailpiece 269 

Vignette .    .    .  270 

Half  Title.    Rokeby 271 

Vignette 272 

Barnard  Castle 275 

"'Aught,'    answered    Bertram,   'wouldst 

thou  know, 

Demand  in  simple  terms  and  plain  '"  .     .  277 

The  Tweed 279 


Page 
"  Egliston's  gray  ruins  " 283 

"  Who  by  Roslin  strays  " 284 

"  Some  mountain,  rent  and  riven, 
A  channel  for  the  stream  had  given  "  .     .     287 

"  Nor  then  unscabbarded  his  brand  "    .     .     289 

"  The  course  of  Greta's  playful  tide  "  .     .    293 

"  Where  the  bank  opposing  showed 
Its  huge,  square  cliffs  through  shaggy  wood  "  295 

Denzil  and  Bertram  at  the  Cave    .    299 

"  The  woodland  lends  its  sylvan  screen  "     303 

"  Soon  in  Rokeby's  woods  is  seen 
A  gallant  boy  " 305 

u  '  And  rest  we  here/  Matilda  said  "     . 

"  Distant  and  high,  the  tower  of  Bowes 

"  The  old  gray  porter  raised  his  torch  " 

The  Cavalier 


307 
3" 
3*3 
3*7 


"  Forth  from  the  central  mass  of  smoke 
The  giant  form  of  Bertram  broke  " 

"  When  yonder  broken  arch  was  whole  " 

"  '  Over  Redesdale  it  came, 
As  bodeful  as  their  beacon-flame  '  " 

"  He  left  no  bolder  heart  behind  "  .     . 

Tailpiece 

Vignette 


Half  Title.    The  Bridal  of  Trier- 
main       


321 
323 

329 
332 
333 
334 

335 
Vignette 336 

"The  woodland  brook  we  needs    must 

pass" 337 

"  And  now  we  reach  the  favorite  glade  "  .     339 

"  He    journeyed    like    errant-knight   the 

while " 341 

"  And  copse  and  arbor  decks  the  spot "    .     345 

"  Carlisle  tower  and  town" 347 

"  In  panoply  the  champions  ride  "...     349 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


xix 


"  But  soon  to  earnest  grew  their  game 
"  This  rude  and  Alpine  glen  "  .  .  . 
"  That  shattered  pile  of  rocks  so  gray ' 


Page 
351 

353 

357 


u  Tossed  high  aloft  a  fountain  fair 

Was  sparkling  in  the  sun  " 361 

Half  Title.    The  Lord  of  the  Isles    365 

Vignette 366 

44  The  last  blithe  shout  hath  died  upon  our 
ear" 

Tailpiece 


368 
368 


Artornish 369 

The  House  of  Lorn 371 

Tailpiece 375 

"  Dunvegan  high  " 379 

"  Sandalled  monks  who  relics  bore, 
With  many  a  torch-bearer  before 

And  many  a  cross  behind  " 361 

CORISKIN    AND   COOLIN 387 

44  Deep  in  Strathaird's  enchanted  cell  "     .  389 

44  From  Canna's  tower  " 393 

Columba's  Isle 397 

Tailpiece 399 

44  Fair  Loch-Ranza " .     .  401 

44  In  Brodick-Bay  " 403 

Tailpiece 408 

Stirling's  Towers 409 

44  All  bouned  them  for  the  fight  "     ...  411 

The  Field  of  Bannockburn  ....  413 

"  High  in  his  stirrups  stood  the  king  "     .  415 

Cambus-kenneth 419 

Half  Title.    The  Field  of  Waterloo  42 1 


Vignette 


422 


Thy  wood,  dark  Soignies  " 424 


Page 

The  Field  of  Waterloo 425 

Napoleon 429 

"  The  dawn  that  in  the  orient  glows  "  .    .  431 

Tailpiece 431 

Vignette 432 

Half  Title.    Harold  the  Dauntless  433 


Vignette 


434 


Saint  Cuthbert's  Isle 437 

44  'T  is  merry  in  greenwood  " 441 

41  Gray  towers  of  Durham  " 447 

Tailpiece 449 

Tailpiece 458 

Tailpiece 463 

Vignette     . 464 

Half  Title.    Translations,  Ballads, 

Etc 465 

Vignette 466 

Tailpiece 481 

44  In  gray  Glenfinlas'  deepest  nook  "     .    .  483 

44  Where  wild   Loch   Katrine   pours  her 

tide  " 485 

Linlithgow 490 

Tailpiece 491 

44  The  brown  crest  of  Newark  "  .     .     .     .  510 

Half  Title.    Appendix 527 

Vignette 528 

Tailpiece 536 

Tailpiece 538 

Both  well  Castle 541 

Cheviot 543 

44  Yarrow's  Braes  " 544 

Tailpiece 561 

Vignette ....  562 


XX 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


Page 

Half  Title.    Notes 563 

Vignette 564 

Tailpiece 632 

Half  Title.    Glossary 633 

Vignette 634 


Page 

Tailpiece 637 

Vignette 638 

Half  Title.    Index 639 

Vignette 640 

Tailpiece ,    .  646 


~^>5t&Mr 


%ty  2Up  of  tfje  2Ust  jWmstrel. 


Dum  relego,  scripsisse  fudet ;   quia  pluritna  cerno, 
Me  quoque  qui  feci  judice,  digna  lint. 


TO  THE 
RIGHT   HONORABLE 

CHARLES,  EARL    OF    DALKEITH, 

THIS   POEM    IS    INSCRIBED   BY 

THE   AUTHOR. 


INTRODUCTION. 

The  way  was  long,  the  wind  was  cold, 
The  Minstrel  was  infirm  and  old ; 
His  withered  cheek  and'tresses  gray- 
Seemed  to  have  known  a  better  day ; 
The  harp,  his  sole  remaining  joy, 


Was  carried  by  an  orphan  boy. 
The  last  of  all  the  bards  was  he, 
Who  sung  of  Border  chivalry  ; 
For,  well-a-day  !  their  date  was  fled, 
His  tuneful  brethren  all  were  dead; 
And  he,  neglected  and  oppressed. 
Wished  to  be  with  them  and  at  rest. 


'^C^TT'S  .POETICAL    WORKS. 


No  more  on  prancing  palfrey  borne, 

He  carolled,  light  as  lark  at  morn ; 

No  longer  courted  and  caressed, 

High  placed  in  hall,  a  welcome  guest, 

He  poured,  to  lord  and  lady  gay, 

The  unpremeditated  lay : 

Old  times  were  changed,  old  manners  gone 

A  stranger  filled  the  Stuarts'  throne  ; 

The  bigots  of  the  iron  time 

Had  called  his  harmless  art  a  crime. 

A  wandering  harper,  scorned  and  poor, 

He  begged  his  bread  from  door  to  door, 

And  tuned,  to  please  a  peasant's  ear, 

The  harp  a  king  had  loved  to  hear. 

He  passed  where  Newark's  stately  tower 
Looks  out  from  Yarrow's  birchen  bower  : 
The  Minstrel  gazed  with  wishful  eye  — 
No  humbler  resting-place  was  nigh. 
With  hesitating  step  at  last 
The  embattled  portal  arch  he  passed, 
Whose  ponderous  grate  and  massy  bar 
Had  oft  rolled  back  the  tide  of  war, 
But  never  closed  the  iron  door 
Against  the  desolate  and  poor. 
The  Duchess  marked  his  weary  pace, 
His  timid  mien,  and  reverend  face, 
And  bade  her  page  the  menials  tell 
That  they  should  tend  the  old  man  well : 
For  she  had  known  adversity, 
Though  born  in  such  a  high  degree  ; 
In  pride  of  power,  in  beauty's  bloom, 
Had  wept  o'er  Monmouth's  bloody  tomb  ! 

When  kindness  had  his  wants  supplied, 
And  the  old  man  was  gratified, 
Began  to  rise  his  minstrel  pride  ; 
And  he  began  to  talk  anon 
Of  good  Earl  Francis,  dead  and  gone, 


And  of  Earl  Walter,  rest  him  God ! 

A  braver  ne'er  to  battle  rode ; 

And  how  full  many  a  tale  he  knew 

Of  the  old.warriors  of  Buccleuch : 

And,  would  the  noble  Duchess  deign 

To  listen  to  an  old  man's  strain, 

Though  stiff  his  hand,  his  voice  though  weak, 

He  thought  even  yet,  the  sooth  to  speak, 

That,  if  she  loved  the  harp  to  hear, 

He  could  make  music  to  her  ear. 

The  humble  boon  was  soon  obtained ; 

The  aged  Minstrel  audience  gained. 

But  when  he  reached  the  room  of  state 

Where  she  with  all  her  ladies  sate, 

Perchance  he  wished  his  boon  denied  : 

For,  when  to  tune  his  harp  he  tried, 

His  trembling  hand  had  lost  the  ease 

Which  marks  security  to  please ; 

And  scenes,  long  past,  of  joy  and  pain 

Came  wildering  o'er  his  aged  brain  — 

He  tried  to  tune  his  harp  in  vain. 

The  pitying  Duchess  praised  its  chime, 

And  gave  him  heart,  and  gave  him  time, 

Till  every  string's  according  glee 

Was  blended  into  harmony. 

And  then,  he  said,  he  would  full  fain 

He  could  recall  an  ancient  strain 

He  never  thought  to  sing  again. 

It  was  not  framed  for  village  churls, 

But  for  high  dames  and  mighty  earls  ; 

He  had  played  it  to  King  Charles  the  Good 

When  he  kept  court  in  Holyrood ; 

And  much  he  wished,  yet  feared,  to  try 

The  long-forgotten  melody. 

Amid  the  strings  his  fingers  strayed, 

And  an  uncertain  warbling  made, 

And  oft  he  shook  his  hoary  head. 

But  when  he  caught  the  measure  wild, 


THE  LA  Y  OF   THE  LAST  MINSTREL. 


The  old  man  raised  his  face  and  smiled ; 

And  lightened  up  his  faded  eye 

With  all  a  poet's  ecstasy  ! 

In  varying  cadence,  soft  or  strong, 

He  swept  the  sounding  chords  along : 

The  present  scene,  the  future  lot,. 

His  toils,  his  wants,  were  all  forgot ; 

Cold  diffidence  and  age's  frost 

In  the  full  tide  of  song  were  lost ; 

Each  blank,  in  faithless  memory  void, 

The  poet's  glowing  thought  supplied ; 

And,  while  his  harp  responsive  rung, 

'T  was  thus  the  Latest  Minstrel  suns. 


&Jje  Hag  of  tije  &ast  JKtoittL 


CANTO   FIRST. 


The  feast  was  over  in  Branksome  tower, 
And  the  Ladye  had  gone  to  her  secret  bower, 


Her  bower  that  was  guarded  by  word  and  by 

spell, 
Deadly  to  hear,  and  deadly  to  tell  — 
Jesu  Maria,  shield  us  well ! 
No  living  wight,  save  the  Ladye  alone, 
Had  dared  to  cross  the  threshold  stone. 


The  tables  were  drawn,  it  was  idlesse  all ; 

Knight  and  page  and  household  squire 
Loitered  through  the  lofty  hall, 

Or  crowded  round  the  ample  fire  : 
The  stag-hounds,  weary  with  the  chase, 

Lay  stretched  upon  the  rushy  floor, 
And  urged  in  dreams  the  forest  race, 

From  Teviot-stone  to  Eskdale-moor. 

in. 

Nine-and-twenty  knights  of  fame 

Hung  their  shields  in  Branksome  Hall ; 

Nine-and-twenty  squires  of  name 

Brought  them  their  steeds  to  bower  from 
stall : 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL    WORKS. 


Nine-and-twenty  yeomen  tall 
Waited  duteous  on  them  all : 
They  were  all  knights  of  mettle  true, 
Kinsmen  to  the  bold  Buccleuch. 


IV. 

Ten  of  them  were  sheathed  in  steel, 
With  belted  sword  and  spur  on  heel ; 
They  quitted  not  their  harness  bright, 
Neither  by  day  nor  yet  by  night : 

They  lay  down  to  rest, 

With  corselet  laced, 
Pillowed  on  buckler  cold  and  hard ; 

They  carved  at  the  meal 

With  gloves  of  steel, 
And  they  drank  the  red  wine  through  the 
helmet  barred. 

v. 
Ten  squires,  ten  yeomen,  mail-clad  men, 
Waited  the  beck  of  the  warders  ten  ; 
Thirty  steeds,  both  fleet  and  wight, 
Stood  saddled  in  stable  day  and  night, 
Barded  with  frontlet  of  steel,  I  trow, 
And  with  Jedwood-axe  at  saddle-bow ; 
A  hundred  more  fed  free  in  stall :  — 
Such  was  the  custom  of  Branksome  Hall. 

VI. 

Why  do  these  steeds  stand  ready  dight  ? 
Why  watch  these  warriors  armed  by  night  ? 


They  watch  to  hear  the  bloodhound  baying ; 

They  watch  to  hear  the  war-horn  braying ; 

To  see  Saint  George's  red  cross  streaming, 

To  see  the  midnight  beacon  gleaming ; 

They  watch  against  Southern  force  andguile, 
Lest  Scroop  or  Howard  or  Percy's  powers 
Threaten  Branksome's  lordly  towers, 

From  Wark worth  or  Naworth  or  merry 
Carlisle. 


VII. 

Such  is  the  custom  of  Branksome  Hall. 

Many  a  valiant  knight  is  here ; 
But  he,  the  chieftain  of  them  all, 
His  sword  hangs  rusting  on  the  wall 

Beside  his  broken  spear. 
Bards  long  shall  tell 
How  Lord  Walter  fell ! 
When  startled  burghers  fled  afar 
The  furies  of  the  Border  war, 
When  the  streets  of  high  Dunedin 
Saw  lances  gleam  and  falchions  redden, 
And  heard  the  slogan's  deadly  yell,  — 
Then  the  Chief  of  Branksome  fell. 


VIII. 

Can  piety  the  discord  heal, 

Or  stanch  the  death-feud's  enmity  ? 
Can  Christian  lore,  can  patriot  zeal, 

Can  love  of  blessed  charity? 


THE  LA  Y  OF   THE  LAST  MINSTREL. 


No !  vainly  to  each  holy  shrine 

In  mutual  pilgrimage  they  drew, 
Implored  in  vain  the  grace  divine 

For  chiefs  their  own  red  falchions  slew. 
While  Cessford  owns  the  rule  of  Carr, 

While  Ettrick  boasts  the  line  of  Scott, 
The  slaughtered  chiefs,  the  mortal  jar, 
The  havoc  of  the  feudal  war, 

Shall  never,  never  be  forgot ! 

IX. 

In  sorrow  o'er  Lord  Walter's  bier 
The  warlike  foresters  had  bent, 


Then  fast  the  mother's  tears  did  seek 
To  dew  the  infant's  kindling  cheek. 


All  loose  her  negligent  attire, 

All  loose  her  golden  hair, 
Hung  Margaret  o'er  her  slaughtered  sire 

And  wept  in  wild  despair. 
But  not  alone  the  bitter  tear 

Had  filial  grief  supplied, 
For  hopeless  love  and  anxious  fear 

Had  lent  their  mingled  tide  ; 
Nor  in  her  mother's  altered  eye 


And  many  a  flower  and  many  a  tear 

Old  Teviot's  maids  and  matrons  lent : 
But  o'er  her  warrior's  bloody  bier 
The  Ladye  dropped  nor  flower  nor  tear  ! 
Vengeance,  deep-brooding  o'er  the  slain, 

Had  locked  the  source  of  softer  woe, 
And  burning  pride  and  high  disdain 

Forbade  the  rising  tear  to  flow ; 
Until,  amid  his  sorrowing  clan, 

Her  son  lisped  from  the  nurse's  knee. 
'  And  if  I  live  to  be  a  man, 

My  father's  death  revenged  shall  be  !  * 


Dared  she  to  look  for  sympathy. 
Her  lover  'gainst  her  father's  clan 

With  Carr  in  arms  had  stood, 
When  Mathouse-burn  to  Melrose  ran 

All  purple  with  their  blood  ; 
And  well  she  knew  her  mother  dread, 
Before  Lord  Cranstoun  she  should  wed, 
Would  see  her  on  her  dying  bed. 

XI. 

Of  noble  race  the  Ladye  came; 
Her  father  was  a  clerk  of  fame 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL    WORKS. 


Of  Bethune's  line  of  Picardie  : 
He  learned  the  art  that  none  may  name 

In  Padua,  far  beyond  the  sea. 
Men  said  he  changed  his  mortal  frame 

By  feat  of  magic  mystery ; 
For  when  in  studious  mood  he  paced 

Saint  Andrew's  cloistered  hall, 
His  form  no  darkening  shadow  traced 

Upon  the  sunny  wall ! 


XII. 

And  of  his  skill,  as  bards  avow, 

He  taught  that  Ladye  fair, 
Till  to  her  bidding  she  could  bow 

The  viewless  forms  of  air. 
And  now  she  sits  in  secret  bower, 
In  old  Lord  David's  western  tower, 
And  listens  to  a  heavy  sound 
That  moans  the  mossy  turrets  round. 
Is  it  the  roar  of  Teviot's  tide, 
That  chafes  against  the  scaur's  red  side  ? 
Is  it  the  wind,  that  swings  the  oaks  ? 
Is  it  the  echo  from  the  rocks  ? 
What  may  it  .be,  the  heavy  sound, 
That  moans  old  Branksome's  turrets  round? 

XIII. 

At  the  sullen,  moaning  sound 

The  ban-dogs  bay  and  howl, 
And  from  the  turrets  round 

Loud  whoops  the  startled  owl. 
In  the  hall,  both  squire  and  knight 

Swore  that  a  storm  was  near, 
And  looked  forth  to  view  the  night ; 

But  the  night  was  still  and  clear  ! 

XIV. 

From  the.  sound  of  Teviot's  tide, 
Chafing  with  the  mountain's  side, 
From  the  groan  of  the  wind-swung  oak, 
From  the  sullen  echo  of  the  rock, 


From  the  voice  of  the  coming  storm, 

The  Ladye  knew  it  well ! 
It  was  the  Spirit  of  the  Flood  that  spoke, 

And  he  called  on  the  Spirit  of  the  Fell. 

XV. 
RIVER   SPIRIT. 

'  Sleep'st  thou,  brother  ?  ' 

MOUNTAIN    SPIRIT. 

'  Brother,  nay  — 
On  my  hills  the  moonbeams  play. 
From  Craik-cross  to  Skelfhill-pen, 
By  every  rill,  in  every  glen, 
Merry  elves  their  morris  pacing, 

To  aerial  minstrelsy, 
A        Emerald  rings  on  brown  heath  tracing, 

Trip  it  deft  and  merrily. 
Up,  and  mark  their  nimble  feet ! 
Up,  and  list  their  music  sweet ! ' 


RIVER   SPIRIT. 

'  Tears  of  an  imprisoned  maiden 
Mix  with  my  polluted  stream ; 
Margaret  of  Branksome,  sorrow-laden, 
Mourns   beneath   the   moon's    pale 
beam. 
Tell  me,  thou  who  view'st  the  stars, 
When  shall  cease  these  feudal  jars  ? 
What  shall  be  the  maiden's  fate  ? 
Who  shall  be  the  maiden's  mate  ? ' 

XVII. 
MOUNTAIN   SPIRIT. 

'  Arthur's  slow  wain  his  course  doth  roll 

In  utter  darkness  round  the  pole ; 

The  Northern  Bear  lowers  black  and  grim, 

Orion's  studded  belt  is  dim  ; 

Twinkling  faint,  and  distant  far, 

Shimmers  through  mist  each  planet  star ; 

111  may  I  read  their  high  decree  : 
But  no  kind  influence  deign  they  shower 
On  Teviot's  tide  and  Branksome's  tower 

Till  pride  be  quelled  and  love  be  free.' 


XVIII. 

The  unearthly  voices  ceased, 

And  the  heavy  sound  was  still ; 
It  died  on  the  river's  breast, 

It  died  on  the  side  of  the  hill. 
But  round  Lord  David's  tower 

The  sound  still  floated  near  ; 
For  it  rung  in  the  Ladye's  bower, 

And  it  rung  in  the  Ladye's  ear. 
She  raised  her  stately  head, 

And  her  heart  throbbed  high  with  pride 
'  Your  mountains  shall  bend 


THE  LA  Y  OF   THE  LAST  MINSTREL. 


And  your  streams  ascend, 

Ere  Margaret  be  our  foeman's  bride  ! ' 


The  Ladye  sought  the  lofty  hall, 

Where  many  a  bold  retainer  lay, 
And  with  jocund  din  among  them  all 

Her  son  pursued  his  infant  play. 
A  fancied  moss-trooper,  the  boy 

The  truncheon  of  a  spear  bestrode, 
And  round  the  hall  right  merrily 

In  mimic  foray  rode. 
Even  bearded  knights,  in  arms  grown  old, 

Share  in  his  frolic  gambols  bore, 
Albeit  their  hearts  of  rugged  mould 

Were  stubborn  as  the  steel  they  wore. 
For  the  gray  warriors  prophesied 

How  the  brave  boy  in  future  war 
Should  tame  the  Unicorn's  pride, 

Exalt  the  Crescents  and  the  Star. 


xx. 

The  Ladye  forgot  her  purpose  high 

One  moment  and  no  more, 
One  moment  gazed  with  a  mother's  eye 

As  she  paused  at  the  arched  door ; 
Then  from  amid  the  armed  train     . 
She  called  to  her  William  of  Deloraine. 


XXI. 

A  stark  moss-trooping  Scott  was  he 
As  e'er  couched  Border  lance  by  knee  : 
Through    Solway   Sands,   through    Tarras 

Moss, 
Blindfold  he  knew  the  paths  to  cross  ; 
By  wily  turns,  by  desperate  bounds, 
Had  baffled  Percy's  best  bloodhounds ; 
In  Eske  or  Liddel  fords  were  none 
But  he  would  ride  them,  one  by  one ; 
Alike  to  him  was  time  or  tide, 


IO 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL   WORKS. 


December's  snow  or  July's  pride  ; 

Alike  to  him  was  tide  or  time, 

Moonless  midnight  or  matin  prime  : 

Steady  of  heart  and  stout  of  hand 

As  ever  drove  prey  from  Cumberland ; 

Five  times  outlawed  had  he  been 

By  England's  king  and  Scotland's  queen. 

XXII. 

'  Sir  William  of  Deloraine,  good  at  need, 
Mount  thee  on  the  wightest  steed ; 
Spare  not  to  spur  nor  stint  to  ride 
Until  thou  come  to  fair  Tweedside ; 
And  in  Melrose's  holy  pile 
Seek  thou  the  Monk  of  Saint  Mary's  aisle. 
Greet  the  father  well  from  me ; 

Say  that  the  fated  hour  is  come, 
And  to-night  he  shall  watch  with  thee, 

To  win  the  treasure  of  the  tomb : 
For  this  will  be  Saint  Michael's  night, 
And    though   stars   be   dim  the   moon   is 

bright, 
And  the  cross  of  bloody  red 
Will  point  to  the1  grave  of  the  mighty  dead. 

XXIII. 

*  What  he  gives  thee,  see  thou  keep  ; 
Stay  not  thou  for  food  or  sleep  : 
Be  it  scroll  or  be  it  book, 
Into  it,  knight,  thou  must  not  look; 
If  thou  readest',  thou  art  lorn  ! 
Better  hadst  thou  ne'er  been  born ! ' 


*  O  swiftly  can  speed  my  dapple-gray  steed, 

Which  drinks  of  the  Teviot  clear ; 
Ere  break  of  day,'  the  warrior  gan  say, 

1  Again  will  I  be  here  : 
And  safer  by  none  may  thy  errand  be  done 

Than,  noble  dame,  by  me  ; 
Letter  nor  line  know  I  never  one, 

Were  't  my  neck-verse  at  Hairibee.' 

XXV. 

Soon  in  his  saddle  sate  he  fast, 
And  soon  the  steep  descent  he  passed, 
Soon  crossed  the  sounding  barbican, 
And  soon  the  Teviot  side  he  won. 
Eastward  the  wooded  path  he  rode, 
Green  hazels  o'er  his  basnet  nod; 
He  passed  the  Peel  of  Goldiland, 
And  crossed  old  Borth  wick's  roaring  strand ; 
Dimly  he  viewed  the  Moat-hill's  mound, 
Where  Druid  shades  still  flitted  round  : 
In  Hawick  twinkled  many  a  light ; 
Behind  him  soon  they  set  in  night ; 
And  soon  he  spurred  his  courser  keen 
Beneath  the  tower  of  Hazeldean. 


XXVI. 

The  clattering  hoofs  the  watchmen  mark : 
1  Stand,  ho  !  thou  courier  of  the  dark.' 
1  For  Branksome,  ho  ! '  the  knight  rejoined, 
And  left  the  friendly  tower  behind. 
He  turned  him  now  from  Teviotside, 

And,  guided  by  the  tinkling  rill, 
Northward  the  dark  ascent  did  ride. 

And  gained  the  moor  at  Horseliehill ; 
Broad  on  the  left  before  him  lay 
For  many  a  mile  the  Roman  way. 

XXVII. 

A  moment  now  he  slacked  his  speed, 
A  moment  breathed  his  panting  steed, 
Drew  saddle-girth  and  corselet-band, 
And  loosened  in  the  sheath  his  brand. 
On  Minto-crags  the  moonbeams  glint, 
Where  Barnhill  hewed  his  bed  of  flint, 
Who  flung  his  outlawed  limbs  to  rest 
Where  falcons  hang  their  giddy  nest 
Mid  cliffs  from  whence  his  eagle  eye 
For  many  a  league  his  prey  could  spy ; 
Cliffs  doubling,  on  their  echoes  borne, 
The  terrors  of  the  robber's  horn  ; 
Cliffs  which  for  many  a  later  year 
The  warbling  Doric  reed  shall  hear, 
When  some  sad  swain  shall  teach  the  grove 
Ambition  is  no  cure  for  love. 

XXVIII. 

Unchallenged,  thence  passed  Deloraine 
To  ancient  Riddel's  fair  domain, 

Where  Aill,  from  mountains  freed, 
Down  from  the  lakes  did  raving  come  ; 
Each  wave  was  crested  with  tawny  foam, 

Like  the  mane  of  a  chestnut  steed. 
In  vain  !  no  torrent,  deep  or  broad, 
Might  bar  the  bold  moss-trooper's  road. 

XXIX. 

At  the  first  plunge  the  horse  sunk  low, 

And  the  water  broke  o'er  the  saddle-bow: 

Above  the  foaming  tide,  I  ween, 

Scarce  half  the  charger's  neck  was  seen ; 

For  he  was  barded  from  counter  to  tail, 

And  the  rider  was  armed  complete  in  mail ; 

Never  heavier  man  and  horse 

Stemmed  a  midnight  torrent's  force. 

The  warrior's  very  plume,  I  say, 

Was  daggled  by  the  dashing  spray; 

Yet,  through  good  heart  and  Our  Ladye's 

grace, 
At  length  he  gained  the  landing-place. 

XXX. 

Now  Bowden  Moor  the  march-man  won, 
And  sternly  shook  his  plumed  head, 


THE  LAY  OF   THE  LAST  MINSTREL. 


As  glanced  his  eye  o'er  Halidon  ; 

For  on  his  soul  the  slaughter  red 
Of  that  unhallowed  morn  arose, 
When  first  the  Scott  and  Carr  were  foes ; 
When  royal  James  beheld  the  fray, 
Prize  to  the  victor  of  the  day ;  . 
When  Home  and  Douglas  in  the  van 
Bore  down  Buccleuch's  retiring  clan, 
Till  gallant  Cessford's  heart-blood  dear 
Reeked  on  dark  Elliot's  Border  spear. 


In  bitter  mood  he  spurred  fast,. 

And  soon  the  hated  heath  was  past ; 

And  far  beneath,  in  lustre  wan, 

Old  Melros'  rose  and  fair  Tweed  ran  : 

Like  some  tall  rock  with  lichens  gray, 

Seemed,  dimly  huge,  the  dark  Abbaye. 

When  Hawick  he  passed  had  curfew  rung, 

Now  midnight  lauds  were  in  Melrose  sung. 

The  sound  upon  the  fitful  gale 

In  solemn  wise  did  rise  and  fail, 

Like  that  wild  harp  whose  magic  tone 

Is  wakened  by  the  winds  alone. 

But  when  Melrose  he  reached  't  was  silence 

all; 
He  meetly  stabled  his  steed  in  stall, 
And  sought  the  convent's  lonely  wall. 


And  how  old  age  and  wandering  long 

Had  done  his  hand  and  harp  some  wrong. 

The  Duchess,  and  her  daughters  fair, 

And  every  gentle  lady  there, 

Each  after  each,  in  due  degree, 

Gave  praises  to  his  melody ; 

His  hand  was  true,  his  voice  was  clear, 

And  much  they  longed  the  rest  to  hear. 

Encouraged  thus,  the  aged  man 

After  meet  rest  again  began. 


ftfje  2Ug  of  tje  3Last  JEmjsttel. 


CANTO   SECOND. 


If  thou  wouldst  view  fair  Melrose  aright, 
Go  visit  it  by  the  pale  moonlight ; 
For  the  gay  beams  of  lightsome  day 
Gild  but  to  flout  the  ruins  grav. 


Here  paused  the  harp;    and 

swell 
The  Master's  fire  and  courage  fell 
Dejectedly  and  low  he  bowed, 
And,  gazing  timid  on  the  crowd. 
He  seemed  to  seek  in  every  eye 
If  they  approved  his  minstrelsy ; 
And,  diffident  of  present  praise, 
Somewhat  he  spoke  of  former  day 


12 


scorrs  poetical  works. 


When  the  broken  arches  are  black  in  night, 
And  each  shafted  oriel  glimmers  white : 
When  the  cold  light's  uncertain  shower 
Streams  on  the  ruined  central  tower  ; 
When  buttress  and  buttress,  alternately, 
Seem  framed  of  ebon  and  ivory  ; 
When  silver  edges  the  imagery, 
And  the  scrolls  that  teach  thee  to  live  and  die ; 
When  distant  Tweed  is  heard  to  rave, 
And  the  owlet  to  hoot  o'er  the  dead  man's 

grave, 
Then  go  —  but  go  alone  the  while  — 
Then  view  Saint  David's  ruined  pile.; 
And,  home  returning,  soothly  swear 
Was  never  scene  so  sad  and  fair ! 


Short  halt  did  Deloraine  make  there ; 
Littl£  recked  he  6f  the  scene  so  fair  : 
With  dagger's  hilt  on  the  wicket  strong 
He  struck  full  loud,  and  struck  full  long. 
The  porter  hurried  to  the  gate  : 
'  Who  knocks  so  loud,  and  knocks  so  late  ? ' 
'  From  Branksome  I,'  the  warrior  cried  ; 
And  straight  the  wicket  opened  wide  : 
For  Branksome's  chiefs  had  in  battle  stood 
To  fence  the  rights  of  fair  Melrose ; 


And  lands  and  livings,  many  a  rood, 

Had  gifted   the   shrine  for  their  souls' 
repose. 

in. 

Bold  Deloraine  his  errand  said; 

The  porter  bent  his  humble  head ; 

With  torch  in  hand,  and  feet  unshod, 

And  noiseless  step,  the  path  he  trod  : 

The  arched  cloister,  far  and  wide, 

Rang  to  the  warrior's  clanking  stride, 

Till,  stooping  low  his  lofty  crest, 

He  entered  the  cell  of  the  ancient  priest, 

And  lifted  his  barred  aventayle 

To  hail  the  Monk  of  Saint  Mary's  aisle. 


IV. 

'  The  Ladye  of  Branksome  greets  thee  by 
me, 

Says  that  the  fated  hour  is  come, 
And  that  to-night  I  shall  watch  with  thee, 

To  win  the  treasure  of  the  tomb.' 
From  sackcloth  couch  the  monk  arose, 

With  toil  his  stiffened  limbs  he  reared ; 
A  hundred  years  had  flung  their  snows 

On  his  thin  locks  and  floating  beard. 


THE  LAY  OF   THE  LAST  MINSTREL. 


3 


v. 
And  strangely  on  the  knight  looked  he, 

And  his  blue  eyes  gleamed  wild  and  wide  : 
[  And  darest  thou,  warrior,  seek  to  see 

What  heaven  and  hell  alike  would  hide  ?  j 
My  breast  in  belt  of  iron  pent, 

With  shirt  of  hair  and  scourge  of  thorn, 
For  threescore  years,  in  penance  spent, 

My  knees  those  flinty  stones  have  worn  : 
Yet  all  too  little  to  atone 
For  knowing  what  should  ne'er  be  known. 
Wouldst  thou  thy  every  future  year 

In  ceaseless  prayer  and  penance  drie, 
|  Yet  wait  thy  latter  end  with  fear  — 

Then,  daring  warrior,  follow  me  ! ' 

VI. 

•  Penance,  father,  will  I  none  : 

Prayer  know  I  hardly  one  ; 

For  mass  or  prayer  can  I  rarely  tarry, 

Save  to  patter  an  Ave  Mary, 

When  I  ride  on  a  Border  foray. 

Other- prayer  can  I  none  ; 

So  speed  me  my  errand,  and  let  me  be  gone.' 

VII. 

Again  on  the  knight  looked- the  churchman 
old, 
And  again  he  sighed  heavily ; 


For  he  had  himself  been  a  warrior  bold, 

And  fought  in  Spain  and  Italy. 
And  he  thought  on  the  days  that  were  long 

since  by, 
When  his  limbs  were  strong  and  his  courage 


was  high 


Now,  slow  and  faint,  he  led  the  way 
Where,  cloistered  round,  the  garden  lay ; 
The  pillared  arches  were^ver  their  head, 
And  beneath  their  feet  vvere  the  bones  of 
the  dead. 


Spreading  herbs  and  flowerets  bright 
Glistened  with  the  dew  of  night ; 
Nor  herb  nor  floweret  glistened  there 
But  was  carved  in  the  cloister-arches  as  fair. 
The  monk  gazed  long  on  the  lovely  moon, 

Then  into  the  night  he  looked  forth; 
And  red  and  bright  the  streamers  light 

Were  dancing  in  the  glowing  north. 
So  had  he  seen,  in  fair  Castile, 

The  youth  in  glittering  squadrons  start, 
Sudden  the  flying  jennet  wheel, 

And  hurl  the  unexpected  dart. 
He  knew,  by  the  streamers  that  shot  so 

bright, 
That  spirits  were  riding  the  northern  light. 


H 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL   WORKS. 


Apos- 
the 


By  a  steel-clenched  postern  door 

They  entered  now  the  chancel  tall ; 
The  darkened  roof  rose  high  aloof 

On  pillars  lofty  and  light  and  small : 
The  keystone  that  locked  each  ribbed  aisle 
Was  a  fleur-de-lys  or  a  quatre-feuille ; 
The  corbels  were  carved  grotesque  and  grim : 
And  the  pillars,  with   clustered  shafts   so 

trim, 
With    base    and   with    capital    flourished 

around, 
Seemed  bundles  of  lances  which  garlands 
had  bound. 


Full  many  a  scutcheon  and  banner  riven 
Shook  to  the  cold  night-wind  of  heaven, 

Around  the  screened  altar's  pale ; 
And  there  the  dying  lamps  did  burn 
Before  thy  low  and  lonely  urn, 
O  gallant  Chief  of  Otterburne  ! 

And  thine,  dark  Knight  of  Liddesdale  ! 
O  fading  honors  of  the  dead  ! 
O  high  ambition  lowly  laid  ! 

XI. 

The  moon  on  the  east  oriel  shone 
Through  slender  shafts  of  shapely  stone, 
By   foliaged    tracery    com- 
bined ; 
Thou   wouldst   have    thought 

some  fairy's  hand 
'Twixt    poplars    straight    the 

osier  wand 
In  many  a  freakish  knot  had 

twined, 
Then  framed  a  spell  when  the 

work  was  done, 
And     changed      the     willow 

wreaths  to  stone. 
The  silver  light,  so  pale  and 

faint, 
Showed  many  a  prophet  and 

many  a  saint, 


Whose  image  on  the  glass 
was  dyed ; 

Full  in  the  midst,  his  cross 
of  red 

Triumphant    Michael    bran- 
dished, 
And   trampled   the 
tate's  pride. 

The   moonbeam   kissed 
holy  pane, 

And  threw  on  the  pavement 
a  bloody  stain. 

XII. 

They  sate  them  down  on  a  marble  stone  — 

A  Scottish  monarch  slept  below ; 
Thus  spoke  the  monk  in  solemn  tone  : 

'  I  was  not  always  a  man  of  woe  ; 
For  Paynim  countries  I  have  trod, 
And  fought  beneath  the  Cross  of  God  : 
Now,  strange  to  my  eves  thine  arnMfcppear, 
And  their  iron  clang  sounds  stran^Tto  my 
ear. 

XIII. 

1  In  these  far  climes  it  was  my  lot 

To  meet  the  wondrous  Michael  Scott ; 

A  wizard  of  such  dreaded  fame 
That  when,  in  Salamanca's  cave, 
Him  listed  his  magic  wand  to  wave, 

The  bells  would  ring  in  Notre  Dame  ! 
Some  of  his  skill  he  taught  to  me  ; 
And,  warrior,  I  could  say  to  thee 
The  words  that  cleft  Eildon  Hills  in  three, 

And  bridled  the  Tweed  with  a  curb  of 
stone : 

But  to  speak  them  were  a  deadly  sin, 
And  for  having  but  thought  them  my  heart 
within 

A  treble  penance  must  be  done. 


'  When  Michael  lay  on  his  dying  bed, 
His  conscience  was  awakened  ; 


THE  LAY  OF   THE  LAST  MINSTREL. 


15 


He  bethought  him  of  his  sinful  deed, 
And  he  gave  me  a  sign  to  come  with  speed  : 

I  was  in  Spain  when  the  morning  rose, 
But  I  stood  by  his  bed  ere  evening  close. 

"he  words  may  not  again  be  said 
'hat  he  spoke  to  me,  on  death-bed  laid  ; 
'hey  would  rend  this  Abbaye's  massy  nave, 
md  pile  it  in  heaps  above  his  grave. 

xv. 

I I  swore  to  bury  his  Mighty  Book, 
That  never  mortal  might  therein  look ; 
And  never  to  tell  where  it  was  hid, 
Save  at  his  Chief  of  Branksome's  need ; 
And  when  that  need  was  past  and  o'er, 
Again  the  volume  to  restore. 

J  buried  him  on  Saint  Michael's  night, 
)When  the  bell  tolled  one  and  the  moon  was 

bright, 
And  I  dug  his  chamber  among  the  dead, 
When  the  floor  of  the  chancel  was  stained 

red,  • 

That  his  patron's  cross    might   over  him 

wave, 
(And  scare  the  fiends  from  the  wizard's  crave. 


I  It  was  a  night  of  woe  and  dread 
When  Michael  in  the  tomb  I  laid ; 
Strange  sounds  along  the  chancel  passed, 
The  banners  waved  without  a  blast '  — 
Still  spoke  the  monk,  when  the*  bell  tolled 

one !  — 
I  tell  you,  that  a  braver  man 
Than  William  of  Deloraine,  good  at  need, 
Against  a  foe  ne'er  spurred  a  steed ; 


Yet  somewhat  was  he  chilled  with  dread, 
And  his  hair  did  bristle  upon  his  head. 


XVII. 

'  Lo,  warrior !  now,  the  cross  of  red 
/Points  to  the  grave  of  the  mighty  dead: 

Within  it  burns  a  wondrous  light, 

To  chase  the  spirits  that  love  the  night ; 

jThat  lamp  shall  burn  unquenchably, 

[Until  the  eternal  doom  shall  be.' 

Slow  moved  the  monk  to  the  broad  flag- 
stone 

Which  the  bloody  cross  was  traced  upon  : 

He  pointed  to  a  secret  nook  ; 

An  iron  bar  the  warrior  took  ; 

And  the  monk  made  a  sign  with  his  with- 
ered hand, 

The  grave's  huge  portal  to  expand. 


With  beating  heart  to  the  task  he  went, 
His  sinewy  frame  o'er  the  gravestone  bent, 
With  bar  of  iron  heaved  amain 
Till  the  toil-drops  fell  from  his  brows  like 

rain. 
It  was  by  dint  of  passing  strength 
That  he  moved  the  massy  stone  at  length. 
I  would  you  had  been  there  to  see 
How  the  light  broke  forth  so  gloriously, 
Streamed  upward  to  the  chancel  roof, 
And  through  the  galleries  far  aloof ! 
'No  earthly  flame  blazed  e'er  so  bright : 
It  shone  like  heaven's  own  blessed  light, 

And,  issuing  from  the  tomb, 
Showed  the  monk's  cowl  and  visage  pale, 


i6 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL   WORKS. 


Danced  on  the  dark-browed  warrior's  mail, 
And  kissed  his  waving  plume. 


XIX. 


Before  their  eyes  the  wizard  lay, 
As  if  he  had  not  been  dead  a  day. 
His  hoary  beard  in  silver  rolled, 
He  seemed  some  seventy  winters  old  ; 
A  palmer's  amice  wrapped  him  round, 


With  a  wrought  Spanish  baldric  bound, 
Like  a  pilgrim  from  beyond  the  sea  : 
His  left  hand  held  his  Book  of  Might, 
A  silver  cross  was  in  his  right ; 

The  lamp  was  placed  beside  his  knee. 
High  and  majestic  was  his  look, 
At  which  the  fellest  fiends  had  shook, 
And  all  unruffled  was  his  face  : 
They  trusted  his  soul  had  gotten  grace. 


Often  had  William  of  Deloraine 
Rode  through  the  battle's  bloody  plain, 
And  trampled  down  the  warriors  slain, 

And  neither  known  remorse  nor  awe, 
Yet  now  remorse  and  awe  he  owned  ; 
His  breath  came  thick,  his  head  swam  round, 

When  this  strange  scene  of  death  he  saw. 
Bewildered  and  unnerved  he  stood, 
And  the  priest  prayed  fervently  and  loud  : 
With  eyes  averted  prayed  he  ; 
He  might  not  endure  the  sight  to  see 
Of  the  man  he  had  loved  so  brotherly. 


XXI. 

And  when  the  priest  his  death-prayer  had 

prayed, 
Thus  unto  Deloraine  he  said : 
'  Now,  speed  thee  what  thou  hast  to  do, 
Or,  warrior,  we  may  dearly  rue ; 
For  those  thou  mayst  not  look  upon 
Are  gathering  fast  round  the  yawning  stone  !  * 
Then  Deloraine  in  terror  took 

From  the  cold  hand  the  Mighty  Book. 
With  iron  clasped  and  with  iron  bound  : 
j  He  thought,  as  he  took  it,  the  dead  man 
frowned  ; 
But  the  glare  of  the  sepulchral  light 
Perchance  had  dazzled  the  warrior's  sight. 

XXII. 

When  the  huge  stone  sunk  o'er  the  tomb, 
The  night  returned  in  double  gloom, 
For  the  moon  had  gone  down  and  the 

stars  were  few ; 
And  as  the  knight  and  priest  withdrew, 
With  wavering  steps  and  dizzy  brain, 
They  hardly  might  the  postern  gain. 
'T  is  said,  as  through  the    aisles   they 

passed, 
They  heard  strange  noises  on  the  blast ; 
And  through  the  cloister-galleries  small, 
Which  at  mid-height  thread  the  chancel 

wall, 
Loud  sobs,  and  laughter  louder,  ran, 
And  voices  unlike  the  voice  of  man, 
As  if  the  fiends  kept  holiday 
Because  these  spells  were  brought  to  day. 
I  cannot  tell  how  the  truth  may  be : 
I  say  the  tale  as  't  was  said  to  me. 

XXIII. 

'  Now,  hie  thee  hence,'  the  father  said, 
'  And  when  we  are  on  death-bed  laid, 
O  may  our  dear  Ladye  and  sweet  Saint  John 
Forgive   our   souls   for  the  deed  we  have 

done ! ' 
The  monk  returned  him  to  his  cell, 

And  many  a  prayer  and  penance  sped  : 
When  the  convent  met  at  the  noontide  bell, 

The  Monk  of  Saint  Mary's  aisle  was  dead  ! 
Before  the  cross  was  the  body  laid, 
With  hands  clasped  fast,  as  if  still  he  prayed. 

XXIV. 

The  knight  breathed  free  jn  the  morning 

wind, 
And  strove  his  hardihood  to  find  : 
He  was  glad  when  he  passed  the  tombstones 

gray 
Which  girdle  round  the  fair  Abbaye  ; 
For  the  mystic  book,  to  his  bosom  pressed, 
Felt  like  a  load  upon  his  breast, 


THE  LA  Y  OF  THE   LAST  MINSTREL. 


17 


And  his  joints,  with  nerves  of  iron  twined, 

Shook  like  the  aspen-leaves  in  wind. 

Full  fain  was  he  when  the  dawn  of  day 

Began  to  brighten  Cheviot  gray ; 

He  joyed  to  see  the  cheerful  light, 

And  he  said  Ave  Mary  as  well  as  he  might. 


The  sun  had  brightened  Cheviot  gray, 

The  sun  had  brightened  the  Carter's  side ; 
And  soon  beneath  the  rising  day 

Smiled  Branksome  towers  and  Teviot's 
tide. 
The  wild  birds  told  their  warbling  tale, 

And  wakened  every  flower  that  blows  ; 
And  peeped  forth  the  violet  pale, 

And  spread  her  breast  the  mountain  rose. 
And  lovelier  thaxt  the  rose  so  red, 

Yet  paler  than  the  violet  pale, 
She  early  left  her  sleepless  bed, 

The  fairest  maid  of  Teviotdale. 


XXVI. 

Why  does  fair  Margaret  so  early  awake, 

And  don  her  kirtle  so  hastilie ; 
And  the  silken  knots,  which  in  hurry  she 
would  make, 

Why  tremble  her  slender  fingers  to  tie  ? 
Why  does  she  stop  and  look  often  around, 

As  she  glides  down  the  secret  stair ; 
And  why  does  she  pat  the  shaggy  blood- 
hound, 

As  he  rouses  him  up  from  his  lair  ; 
And,  though  she  passes  the  postern  alone, 
Why  is  not  the  watchman's  bugle  blown  ? 


The  ladye  steps  in  doubt  and  dread 
Lest  her  watchful  mother  hear  her  tread ; 
The  ladye  caresses  the  rough  bloodhound 
Lest  his  voice  should  waken  the  castle  round 
The  watchman's  bugle  is  not  blown, 
For  he  was  her  foster-father's  son  ; 


18 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL    WORKS. 


And  she  glides  through  the  greenwood  at 

dawn  of  light 
To  meet  Baron  Henry,  her  own  true  knight. 

XXVIII. 

The  knight  and  ladye  fair  are  met, 

And  under  the  hawthorn's  boughs  are  set. 

A  fairer  pair  were  never  seen 

To  meet  beneath  the  hawthorn  green. 

He  was  stately  and  young  and  tall, 

Dreaded  in  battle  and  loved  in  hall ; 

And  she,  when  love,  scarce  told,  scarce  hid, 

Lent  to  her  cheek  a  livelier  red. 


And  said  that  she  would  die  a  maid  :  — 
Yet,  might  the  bloody  feud  be  stayed, 
Henry  of  Cranstoun,  and  only  he, 
Margaret  of  Branksome's  choice  should  be. 


xxx. 

Alas  !  fair  dames,  your  hopes  are  vain  ! 
My  harp  has  lost  the  enchanting  strain  ; 

Its  lightness  would  my  age  reprove  : 
My  hairs  are  gray,  my  limbs  are  old, 
My  heart  is  dead,  my  veins  are  cold  : 

1  may  not,  must  not,  sing  of  love. 


When  the  half  sigh  her  swelling  breast 
Against  the  silken  ribbon  pressed, 
When  her  blue  eyes  their  secret  told, 
Though  shaded  by  her  locks  of  gold  — 
Where  would  you  find  the  peerless  fair 
With  Margaret  of  Branksome  might  com- 


pare 


XXIX. 


And  now,  fair  dames,  methinks  I  see 

You  listen  to  my  minstrelsy ; 

Your  waving  locks  ye  backward  throw, 

AncJ  sidelong  bend  your  necks  of  snow. 

Ye  ween  to  hear  a  melting  tale 

Of  two  true  lovers  in  a  dale  ; 

And  how  the  knight,  with  tender  fire, 

To  paint  his  faithful  passion  strove, 
Swore  he  might  at  her  feet  expire, 

But  never,  never  cease  to  love  ; 
And  how  she  blushed,  and  how  she  sighed, 
And,  half  consenting,  half  denied, 


XXXI. 

Beneath  an  oak,  mossed  o'er  by  eld. 
The  Baron's  dwarf  his  courser  held, 

And  held. his  crested  helm  and  spear: 
That  dwarf  was  scarce  an  earthly  man. 
If  the  tales  were  true  that  of  him  ran 

Through  all  the  Border  far  and  near. 
'T  was  said,  when  the  Baron  a-huntingrode 
Through  Reedsdale's  glens,  but  rarely  trod, 
He  heard  a  voice  cry,  '  Lost !  lost !  lost ! ' 
And,  like  tennis-ball  by  racket  tossed, 

A  leap  of  thirty  feet  and  three 
Made  from  the  gorse  this  elfin  shape. 
Distorted  like  some  dwarfish  ape. 

And  lighted  at  Lord  Cranstoun's  knee. 
Lord  Cranstoun  was  some  whit  dismayed  ; 
'T  is  said  that  five  good  miles  he  rade, 

To  rid  him  of  his  company ; 
But  where  he  rode  one  mile,  the  dwarf  ran 

four, 
And  the  dwarf  was  first  at  the  castle  door. 


THE  LAY  OF  THE  LAST  MINSTREL. 


19 


XXXII. 

Use  lessens  marvel,  it  is  said  :     . 
This  elfish  dwarf  with  the  Baron  staid 
Little  he  ate,  and  less  he  spoke, 
Nor  mingled  with  the  menial  flock  ; 


And  oft  apart  his  arms  he  tossed, 
And  often  muttered,  ■  Lost !  lost !  lost ! 
He  was  waspish,  arch,  and  litherlie, 
But  well  Lord  Cranstoun  served  he  : 
And  he  of  his  service  was  full  fain ; 


20 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL    WORKS. 


For  once  he  had  been  ta'en  or  slain, 

An  it  had  not  been  for  his  ministry. 
All  between  Home  and  Hermitage 
Talked  of  Lord  Cranstoun's  Goblin  Page. 

XXXIII. 

For  the  Baron  went  on  pilgrimage, 
And  took  with  him  this  elfish  page, 

To  Mary's  Chapel  of  the  Lowes : 
For  there,  beside  Our  Ladye's  lake, 
An  offering  he  had  sworn  to  make, 

And  he  would  pay  his  vows. 
.But  the  Ladye  of  Branksome  gathered  a  band 
Of  the  best  that  would  ride  at  her  command : 

The  trysting-place  was  Newark  Lee. 
Wat  of  Harden  came  thither  amain, 
And  thither  came  John  of  Thirlestane, 
And  thither  came  William  of  Deloraine  ; 

They  were  three  hundred  spears  and  three. 
Through  Douglas-burn,  up  Yarrow  stream, 
Their  horses  prance,  their  lances  gleam. 
They  came  to  Saint  Mary's  lake  ere  day, 
But  the  chapel  was  void  and  the  Baron  away. 
They  burned  the  chapel  for  very  rage, 
And  cursed  Lord  Cranstoun's  Goblin  Page 

XXXIV. 

And  now,  in  Branksome's  good  greenwood, 
As  under  the  aged  oak  he  stood, 
The  Baron's  courser  pricks  his  ears, 
As  if  a  distant  noise  he  hears. 


The  dwarf  waves  his  long  lean  arm  on  high, 
And  signs. to  the  lovers  to  part  and  fly; 
No  time  was  then  to  vow  or  sigh. 
Fair  Margaret  through  the  hazel-grove 
Flew  like  the  startled  cushat-dove  : 
The  dwarf  the  stirrup  held  and  rein  ; 
Vaulted  the  knight  on  his  steed  amain, 
And,  pondering  deep  that  morning's  scene, 
Rode  eastward  through  the  hawthorns- 
green. 


While  thus  he  poured  the  lengthened  tale, 
The  Minstrel's  voice  began  to  fail. 
Full  slyly  smiled  the  observant  page, 
And  gave  the  withered  hand  of  age 
A  goblet,  crowned  with  mighty  wine, 
The  blood  of  Velez'  scorched  vine. 
He  raised  the  silver  cup  on  high, 
And,  while  the  big  drop  filled  his  eye, 
Prayed  God  to  bless  the  Duchess  long, 
And  all  who  cheered  a  son  of  song. 
The  attending  maidens  smiled  to  see 
How  long,  how  deep,  how  zealously, 
The  precious  juice  the  Minstrel  quaffed.; 
And  he,  emboldened  by  the  draught, 
Looked  gayly  back  to  them  and  laughed. 
The  cordial  nectar  of  the  bowl 
Swelled  his  old  veins  and  cheered  his  soul ; 
A  lighter,  livelier  prelude  ran, 
Ere  thus  his  tale  again  began. 


THE  LAY  OF   THE  LAST  MINSTREL. 


21 


£fje  ILag  of  tjje  ILast  fflmstrel. 


CANTO   THIRD. 


And  said  I  that  my  limbs  were  old, 
And  said  I  that  my  blood  was  cold, 
And  that  my  kindly  fire  was  fled, 
And  my  poor  withered  heart  was  dead, 

And  that  I  might  not  sing  of  love  ?  — 
How  could  I  to  the  dearest  theme 
That  ever  warmed  a  minstrel's  dream, 

So  foul,  so  false  a  recreant  prove  ? 
How  could  I  name  love's  very  name, 
Nor  wake  my  heart  to  notes  of  flame  ? 

ii. 

In  peace,  Love  tunes  the  shepherd's  reed ; 

In  war,  he  mounts  the  warrior's  steed; 

In  halls,  in  gay  attire  is  seen ; 

In  hamlets,  dances  on  the  green. 

Love  rules  the  court,  the  camp,  the  grove, 

And  men  below,  and  saints  above ; 

For  love  is  heaven,  and  heaven  is  love. 


in. 

So  thought  Lord  Cranstoun,  as  I  ween, 
While,  pondering  deep  the  tender  scene, 
He  rode   through    Branksome's   hawthorn 

green. 
But  the  page  shouted  wild  and  shrill, 

And  scarce  his  helmet  could  he  don, 
When  downward  from  the  shady  hill 

A  stately  knight  came  pricking  on. 
That  warrior's  steed,  so  dapple-gray, 
Was  dark  with  sweat  and  splashed  with  clay, 

His  armor  red  with  many  a  stain  : 
He  seemed  in  such  a  weary  plight, 
As  if  he  had  ridden  the  livelong  night ; 

For  it  was  William  of  Deloraine. 

IV. 

But  no  whit  weary  did  he  seem, 

When,  dancing  in  the  sunny  beam, 

He  marked  the  crane  on  the  Baron's  crest ; 

For  his  ready  spear  was  in  his  rest. 

Few  were  the  words,  and  stern  and  high. 

That  marked  the  foemen's  feudal  hate  ; 
For  question  fierce  and  proud  reply 

Gave  signal  soon  of  dire  debate. 


22 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL    WORKS. 


Their  very  coursers  seemed  to  know 
That  each  was  other's  mortal  foe, 
And  snorted  fire  when  wheeled  around 
To  give  each  knight  his  vantage-ground. 


In  rapid  round  the  Baron  bent ; 

He  sighed  a  sigh  and  prayed  a  prayer ; 
The  prayer  was  to  his  patron  saint. 

The  sigh  was  to  his  ladye  fair. 
Stout  Deloraine  nor  sighed  nor  prayed, 
Nor  saint  nor  ladye  called  to  aid ; 
But  he  stooped  his  head,  and  couched  his 

spear, 
And  spurred  his  steed  to  full  career. 
The  meeting  of  these  champions  proud 
Seemed  like  the  bursting  thunder-cloud. 

VI. 

Stern  was  the  dint  the  Borderer  lent ! 

The  stately  Baron  backwards  bent, 

Bent  backwards  to  his  horse's  tail, 

A^id  his  plumes  went  scattering  on  the  gale  ; 

The  tough  ash  spear,  so  stout  and  true, 

Into  a  thousand  flinders  flew. 

But  Cranstoun's  lance,  of  more  avail, 

Pierced  through,  like  silk,  the  Borderer's 

mail ; 
Through  shield  and  jack  and  acton  passed, 
Deep  in  his  bosom  broke  at  last. 
Still  sate  the  warrior  saddle-fast, 
Till,  stumbling  in  the  mortal  shock, 
Down  went  the  steed,  the  girthing  broke, 
Hurled  on  a  heap  lay  man  and  horse. 
The  Baron  onward  passed  his  course, 
Nor  knew  —  so  giddy  rolled  his  brain  — 
His  foe  lay  stretched  upon  the  plain. 

VII. 

But  when  he  reined  his  courser  round, 
And  saw  his  foeman  on  the  ground 

Lie  senseless  as  the  bloody  clay, 
He  bade  his  page  to  stanch  the  wound, 

And  there  beside  the  warrior  stay, 
And  tend  him  in  his  doubtful  state, 
And  lead  him  to  Branksome  castle-gate : 
His  noble  mind  was  inly  moved 
For  the  kinsman  of  the  maid  he  loved. 
1  This  shalt  thou  do  without  delay : 
No  longer  here  myself  may  stay  ; 
Unless  the  swifter  I  speed  away, 
Short  shrift  will  be  at  my  dying  day.' 

VIII. 

Away  in  speed  Lord  Cranstoun  rode  ; 
The  Goblin  Page  behind  abode ; 
His  lord's  command  he  ne'er  withstood, 
Though  small  his  pleasure  to  do  good. 
As  the  corselet  off  he  took, 


The  dwarf  espied  the  Mighty  Book  ! 
Much  he  marvelled  a  knight  of  pride 
Like  a  book-bosomed  priest  should  ride  : 
He  thought  not  to  search  or  stanch  the  wound 
Until  the  secret  he  had  found. 


IX. 

The  iron  band,  the  iron  clasp, 
Resisted  long  the  elfin  grasp  ; 
For  when  the  first  he  had  undone, 
It  closed  as  he  the  next  begun. 
Those  iron  clasps,  that  iron  band, 
Would  not  yield  to  unchristened  hand 
Till  he  smeared  the  cover  o'er 
With  the  Borderer's  curdled  gore  : 
A  moment  then  the  volume  spread, 
And  one  short  spell  therein  he  read. 
It  had  much  of  glamour  might, 
Could  make  a  ladye  seem  a  knight, 
The  cobwebs  on  a  dungeon  wall 
Seem  tapestry  in  lordly  hall, 
A  nutshell  seem  a  gilded  barge, 
A  sheeling  seem  a  palace  large, 
And  youth  seem  age,  and  age  seem  youth 
All  was  delusion,  nought  was  truth. 


He  had  not  read  another  spell, 

When  on  his  cheek  a  buffet  fell, 

So  fierce,  it  stretched  him  on  the  plain 

Beside  the  wounded  Deloraine. 

From  the  ground  he  rose  dismayed, 

And  shook  his  huge  and  matted  head ; 

One  word  he  muttered  and  no  more, 

1  Man  of  age,  thou  smitest  sore  ! ' 

No  more  the  elfin  page  durst  try 

Into  the  wondrous  book  to  pry ; 

The  clasps,  though  smeared  with  Christian 

gore, 
Shut  faster  than  they  were  before. 
He  hid  it  underneath  his  cloak. — 
Now,  if  you  ask  who  gave  the  stroke, 
I  cannot  tell,  so  mot  I  thrive ; 
It  was  not  given  by  man  alive. 


Unwillingly  himself  he  addressed 

To  do  his  master's  high  behest : 

He  lifted  up  the  living  corse, 

And  laid  it  on  the  weary  horse; 

He  led  him  into  Branksome  Hall 

Before  the  beards  of  the  warders  all, 

And  each  did  after  swear  and  say 

There  only  passed  a  wain  of  hay. 

He  took  him  to  Lord  David's  tower, 

Even  to  the  Ladye's  secret  bower ; 

And,  but  that  stronger  spells  were  spread, 

And  the  door  might  not  be  opened, 

He  had  laid  him  on  her  very  bed. 


THE  LA  Y  OF   THE  LAST  MINSTREL. 


23 


Whate'er  he  did  of  gramarye 

Was  always  done  maliciously ; 

He  flung  the  warrior  on  the  ground, 

And  the  blood  welled  freshly  from  the  wound. 


As  he  repassed  the  outer  court. 

He  spied  the  fair  young  child  at  sport: 

He  thought  to. train  him  to  the  wood  : 

For,  at  a  word,  be  it  understood. 

He  was  always  for  ill,  and  never  for  good. 

Seemed  to  the  boy  some  comrade  gay 

Led  him  forth  to  the  woods  to  play : 

On  the  drawbridge  the  warders  stout 

Saw  a  terrier  and  lurcher  passing  out 

XIII. 

He  led  the  boy  o'er  bank  and  fell, 

Until  they  came  to  a  woodland  brook ; 
The  running  stream  dissolved  the  spell 

And  his  own  elfish  shape  he  took. 
Could  he  have  had  his  pleasure  vilde, 
He  had  crippled  the  joints  of  the  noble  child. 
Or,  with  his  fingers  long  and  lean, 
Had  strangled  him  in  fiendish  spleen  : 
But  his  awful  mother  he  had  in  dread, " 
And  also  his  power  was  limited ; 
So  he  but  scowled  on  the  startled  child. 
And  darted  through  the  forest  wild ; 


The  woodland  brook  he  bounding  crossed, 
And   laughed,   and   shouted,    '  Lost !    lost ! 
lost ! ' 


Full  sore  amazed  at  the  wondrous  change, 

And  frightened,  as  a  child  might  be, 
At  the  wild  yell  and  visage  strange, 
I     And  the  dark  words  of  gramarye, 
(The  child,  amidst  the  forest  bower, . 
jStood  rooted  like  a  lily  flower  : 
I  And  when  at  length,  with  trembling  pace,  , 
He  sought  to  find  where  Branksome  lay, 
|He  feared  to  see  that  grisly  face 

Glare  from  some  tnicket  on  his  way. 
Thus,  starting  oft,  he  journeyed  on, 
And  deeper  in  the  wood  is  gone,  — 
For  aye  the  more  he  sought  his  way, 
The  farther  still  he  went  astray, — 
Until  he  heard  the  mountains  round 
Ring  to  the  baying  of  a  hound. 

xv. 

And  hark !  and  hark !  the  deep-mouthed  bark 
Comes  nigher  still  and  nigher; 

Bursts  on  the  path  a  dark  bloodhound, 

His  tawny  muzzle  tracked  the  ground, 
And  his  red  eye  shot  fire. 

Soon  as  the  wildered  child  saw  he, 

He  flew  at  him  right  furiouslie. 


24 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL   WORKS. 


ra 


I  ween  you  would  have  seen  with  joy 

The  bearing  of  the  gallant  boy, 

When,  worthy  of  his  noble  sire, 

His  wet  cheek  glowed  'twixt  fear  and  ire ! 

He  faced  the  bloodhound  manfully, 

And  held  his  little  bat  on  high  ; 

So  fierce  he  struck,  the  dog,  afraid, 

At  cautious  distance  hoarsely  bayed, 

But  still  in  act  to  spring ; 
When  dashed  an  archer  through  the  glade, 
And  when  he  saw  the  hound  was  stayed, 

He  drew  his  tough  bowstring; 
But  a  rough  voice  cried,  '  Shoot  not,  hoy! 
Ho  !  shoot  not,  Edward,  —  't  is  a  boy  ! ' 


Old  England's  sign,   Saint 

George's  cross, 
His  barret-cap  did  grace  ; 
His  bugle-horn  hung  by  his 

side, 
All  in  a  wolf-skin  baldric 

tied; 
And    his     short     falchion, 

sharp  and  clear, 
Had  pierced  the  throat  of 

many  a  deer. 

XVII. 

His  kirtle,  made  of  forest 
green, 
Reached  scantly   to  his 
knee ; 
And,  at  his  belt,  of  arrows 
keen 
A  furbished   sheaf  bore 
he; 
His     buckler      scarce      in 
breadth  a  span, 
No  longer  fence  had  he ; 
He  never  counted  him  a  man, 

Would  strike  below  the  knee : 
His  slackened  bow  was  in  his  hand, 
And  the  leash  that  was  his  bloodhound's 
band. 

XVIII. 

He  would  not  do  the  fair  child  harm, 

But  held  him  with  his  powerful  arm, 

That  he  might  neither  fight  nor  flee ; 

For  when  the  red  cross  spied  he, 

The  boy  strove  long  and  violently. 

'  Now,  by  Saint  George,'  the  archer  cries, 

1  Edward,  methinks  we  have  a  prize  ! 


XVI. 

The  speaker  issued  from 

the  wood, 
And  checked  his  fellow's 
surly  mood, 
And   quelled   the    ban- 
dog's ire : 
He  was  an  English  yeo- 
man good 
And  born  in  Lancashire. 
Well  could  he  hit  a  fallow- 
deer 
Five  hundred  feet  him 
fro; 
With  hand  more  true  and 
eye  more  clear 
No  archer  bended  bow. 
His  coal-black  hair,  shorn 
round  and  close, 
Set  off  his  sun-burned 
face ; 


THE  LAY  OF   THE   LAST  MINSTREL. 


25 


This  boy's  fair  face  and  courage  free 
Show  he  is  come  of  high  degree.' 


XIX. 

*  Yes  !  I  am  come  of  high  degree, 

For  I  am  the  heir  of  bold  Buccleuch ; 
And,  if  thou  dost  not  set  me  free, 

False  Southron,  thou  shalt  dearly  rue  ! 
For  Walter  of  Harden  shall  come  with  speed, 
And  William  of  Deloraine,  good  at  need, 
And  every  Scott  from  Esk  to  Tweed ; 
And,  if  thou  dost  not  let  me  go, 


XXI. 

Although  the  child  was  led  away, 
In  Branksome  still  he  seemed  to  stay, 
For  so  the  Dwarf  his  part  did  play  ; 
And,  in  the  shape  of  that  young  boy, 
He  wrought  the  castle  much  annoy. 
The  comrades  of  the  young  Buccleuch 
He  pinched  and  beat  and  overthrew  ; 
Nay,  some  of  them  he  well-nigh  slew. 
He  tore  Dame  Maudlin's  silken  tire, 
And,  as  Sym  Hall  stood  by  the  fire, 
He  lighted  the  match  of  his  bandelier, 
And  wofully  scorched  the  hackbuteer. 


Despite  thy  arrows  and  thy  bow, 

I  '11  have  thee  hanged  to  feed  the  crow ! 


xx. 

f  Gramercy  for  thy  good-will,  fair  boy  ! 
My  mind  was  never  set  so  high  ; 
But  if  thou  art  chief  of  such  a  clan, 
And  art  the  son  of  such  a  man, 
And  ever  comest  to  thy  command, 

Our  wardens  had  need  to  keep  good  order 
My  bow  of  yew  to  a  hazel  wand, 

Thou  'It  make  them  work  upon  the  Border 
Meantime,  be  pleased  to  come  with  me, 
For  good  Lord  Dacre  shalt  thou  see  ; 
1  think  our  work  is  well  begun, 
When  we  have  taken  thy  father's  son." 


It  may  be  hardly  thought  or  said, 
The  mischief  that  the  urchin  made, 
Till  many  of  the  castle  guessed 
That  the  young  baron  was  possessed  ! 


Well  I  ween  the  charm  he  held 
The  noble  Ladye  had  soon  dispelled, 
But  she  was  deeply  busied  then 
To  tend  the  wounded  Deloraine. 
Much  she  wondered  to  find  him  lie 

On  the  stone  threshold  stretched  along : 
She  thought  some  spirit  of  the  sky 

Had  done  the  bold  moss-trooper  wrong, 
Because,  despite  her  precept  dread. 
Perchance  he  in  the  book  had  read  ; 


26 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL    WORKS. 


But  the  broken  lance  in  his  bosom  stood, 
And  it  was  earthly  steel  and  wood. 

XXIII. 

She  drew  the  splinter  from  the  wound, 

And  with  a  charm  she  stanched  the  blood. 
She  bade  the  gash  be  cleansed  and  bound  : 

No  longer  by  his  couch  she  stood ; 
But  she  has  ta'en  the  broken  lance, 
And  washed  it  from  the  clotted  gore, 
And  salved  the  splinter  o'er  and  o'er. 
William  of  Deloraine,  in  trance, 
Whene'er  she  turned  it  round  and  round, 
Twisted  as  if  she  galled  his  wound. 
Then  to  her  maidens  she  did  say, 
That  he  should  be  whole  man  and  sound 
Within  the  course  of  a  night  and  day. 
Full  long  she  toiled,  for  she  did  rue 
Mishap  to  friend  so  stout  and  true. 

XXIV. 

So  passed  the  day  —  the  evening  fell, 
'Twas  near  the  time  of  curfew  bell; 
The  air  was  mild,  the  wind  was  calm, 
The  stream  was  smooth,  the  dew  was  balm  ; 
E'en  the  rude  watchman  on  the  tower 
Enjoyed  and  blessed  the  lovely  hour. 
Far  more  fair  Margaret  loved  and  blessed 
/The  hour  of  silence  and  of  rest. 
\On  the  high  turret  sitting  lone, 
"he  waked  at  times  the  lute's  soft  tone. 
Touched  a  wild  note,  and  all  between 
Thought  of  the  bower  of  hawthorns  green. 
Her  golden  hair  streamed  free  from  band, 
Her  fair  cheek  rested  on  her  hand, 
Her  blue  eyes  sought  the  west  afar, 
For  lovers  love  the  western  star. 

XXV. 

Is  yon  the  star,  o'er  Penchryst  Pen, 

That  rises  slowly  to  her  ken, 

And,  spreading  broad  its  wavering  light, 

Shakes  its  loose  tresses  on  the  night  ? 

Is  yon  red  glare  the  western  star  ?  — 

O,  't  is  the  beacon-blaze  of  war ! 

Scarce  could  she  draw  her  tightened  breath, 

For  well  she  knew  the  fire  of  death  ! 

XXVI. 

The  warder  viewed  it  blazing  strong, 
And  blew  his  war-note  loud  and  long, 
Till,  at  the  high  and  haughty  sound, 
Rock,  wood,  and  river  rung  around. 
The  blast  alarmed  the  festal  hall, 
And  startled  forth  the  warriors  all ; 
Far  downward  in  the  castle-yard 
Full  many  a  torch  and  cresset  glared ; 
And  helms  and  plumes,  confusedly  tossed; 
\yere  in  the  blaze  half  seen,  half  lost ; 


« 


And  spears  in  wild  disorder  shook, 
Like  reeds  beside  a  frozen  brook. 

XXVII. 

The  seneschal,  whose  silver  hair  • 

Was  reddened  by  the  torches'  glare 

Stood  in  the  midst,  with  gesture  proud, 

And  issued  forth  his  mandates  loud : 

'  On  Penchryst  glows  a  bale  of  fire, 

And  three  are  kindling  on  Priesthaughswire; 

Ride  out,  ride  out, 

The  foe  to  scout ! 
Mount,  mount  for  Branksome,  every  man ! 
Thou,  Todrig,  warn  the  Johnstone  clan, 

That  ever  are  true  and  stout. 
Ye  need  not  send  to  Liddesdale, 
For  when  they  see  the  blazing  bale 
Elliots  and  Armstrongs  never  fail. — 
Ride,  Alton,  ride,  for  death  and  life, 
And  warn  the  warden  of  the  strife  !  — 
Young  Gilbert,  let  our  beacon  blaze. 
Our  kin  and  clan  and  friends  to  raise  ! ' 

XXVIII. 

Fair  Margaret  from  the  turret  head 
Heard  far  below  the  coursers'  tread, 

While  loud  the  harness  rung, 
As  to  their  seats  with  clamor  dread 

The  ready  horsemen  sprung  : 
And  trampling  hoofs,  and  iron  coats, 
And  leaders'  voices,  mingled  notes, 
And  out !  and  out ! 
In  hasty  rout, 

The  horsemen  galloped  forth  ; 
Dispersing  to  the  south  to  scout, 

And  east,  and  west,  and  north, 
To  view  their  coming  enemies. 
And  warn  their  vassals  and  allies. 

XXIX. 

The  ready  page  with  hurried  hand 
Awaked  the  need-fire's  slumbering  brand, 

And  ruddy  blushed  the  heaven  ; 
For  a  sheet  of  flame  from  the  turret  high 
Waved  like  a  blood-flag  on  the  skv. 

All  flaring  and  uneven. 
And  soon  a  score  of  fires,  I  ween, 
From  height  and  hill  and  cliff  were  seen. 
Each  with  warlike  tidings  fraught ; 
Each  from  each  the  signal  caught ; 
Each  after  each  they  glanced  to  sight, 
As  stars  arise  upon  the  night. 
They  gleamed  on  many  a  dusky  tarn, 
Haunted  by  the  lonely  earn  ; 
On  many  a  cairn's  gray  pyramid, 
Where  urns  of  mighty  chiefs  lie  hid ; 
Till  high  Dunedin  the  blazes  saw 
From  Soltra  and  Dumpender  Law, 
And  Lothian  heard  the  Regent's  order 
That  all  should  bowne  them  for  the  Border. 


THE  LAY  OF   THE  LAST  MINSTREL. 


27 


XXX. 


The  livelong  night  in  Branksome  rang 
The  ceaseless  sound  of  steel ; 

The  castle-bell  with  backward  clang 
Sent  forth  the  larum  peal. 


Was  frequent  heard  the  heavy  jar, 
Where  massy  stone  and  iron  bar 
Were  piled  on  echoing  keep  and  tower, 
To  whelm  the  foe  with  deadly  shower ; 
Was  frequent  heard  the  changing  guard, 


28 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL    WORKS. 


And  watchword  from  the  sleepless  ward  ; 
While,  wearied  by  the  endless  din, 
Bloodhound  and  ban-dog  yelled  within. 

XXXI. 

The  noble  dame,  amid  the  broil, 
Shared  the  gray  seneschal's  high  toil, 
And  spoke  of  danger  with  a  smile, 
Cheered  the  young  knights,  and  council  sage 
Held  with  the  chiefs  of  riper  age. 
No  tidings  of  the  foe  were  brought, 
Nor  of  his  numbers  knew  they  aught, 
Nor  what  in  time  of  truce  he  sought. 

Some  said  that  there  were  thousands  ten  ; 
And  others  weened  that  it  was  nought 

But  Leven  Clans  or  Tynedale  men, 
Who  came  to  gather  in  black-mail ; 
And  Liddesdale,  with  small  avail, 

Might  drive  them  lightly  back  agen. 
So  passed  the  anxious  night  away, 
And  welcome  was  the  peep  of  day. 


Ceased    the    high    sound  —  the   listening 

throng 
Applaud  the  Master  of  the  Song; 
And  marvel  much,  in  helpless  age, 
So  hard  should  be  his  pilgrimage. 
Had  he  no  friend  —  no  daughter  dear, 
His  wandering  toil  to  share  and  cheer? 
No  son  to  be  his  father's  stay, 
And  guide  him  on  the  rugged  way? 
'  Ay,  once  he  had  —  but  he  was  dead  ! '  — 
Upon  the  harp  he  stooped  his  head, 
And  busied  himself  the  strings  withal. 
To  hide  the  tear  that  fain  would  fall. 
In  solemn  measure,  soft  and  slow, 
Arose  a  father's  notes  of  woe. 


2Tfje  Hag  of  tfje  Hast  JSmstrEl. 


CANTO    FOURTH. 


Sweet  Teviot !  on  thy  silver  tide 

The  glaring  bale-fires  blaze  no  more ; 
No  longer  steel-clad  warriors  ride 

Along  thy  wild  and  willowed  shore  ; 
Where'er  thou  wind'st  by  dale  or  hill, 
All,  all  is  peaceful,  all  is  still, 

As  if  thy  waves,  since  time  was  born, 
Since  first  they  rolled  upon  the  Tweed, 
Had  only  heard  the  shepherd's  reed, 

Nor  startled  at  the  bugle-horn. 


Unlike  the  tide  of  human  time, 

Which,  though  it  change  in  ceaseless  flow, 
Retains  each  grief,  retains  each  crime, 
.     Its  earliest  course  was  doomed  to  know, 
And,  darker  as  it  downward  bears, 
Is  stained  with  past  and  present  tears. 

Low  as  that  tide  has  ebbed  with  me, 
It  still  reflects  to  memory's  eye 
The  hour  my  brave,  my  only  boy 

Fell  by  the  side  of  great  Dundee. 
Why,  when  the  volleying  musket  played 
Against  the  bloody  Highland  blade, 
Why  was  not  I  beside  him  laid?  — 
Enough  —  he  died  the  death  of  fame  ; 
Enough  —  he  died  with  conquering  Graeme. 

in. 
Now  over  Border  dale  and  fell 

Full  wide  and  far  was  terror  spread ; 
For  pathless  marsh  and  mountain  cell 

The  peasant  left  his  lowly  shed. 
The  frightened  flocks  and  herds  were  pent 
Beneath  the  peel's  rude  battlement ; 
And  maids  and  matrons  dropped  the  tear, 
While  ready  warriors  seized  the  spear. 
From  Branksome's  towers  the  watchman's 

eye 
Dun  wreaths  of  distant  smoke  can  spy, 
Which,  curling  in  the  rising  sun, 
Showed  Southern  ravage  was  begun. 


Now  loud  the  heedful  gate-ward  cried : 
'  Prepare  ye  all  for  blows  and  blood ! 
Watt  Tinlinn,  from  the  Liddel-side, 
Comes  wading  through  the  flood. 
Full  oft  the  Tynedale  snatchers  knock 
At  his  lone  gate  and  prove  the  lock ; 
It  was  but  last  Saint  Barnabright 
They  sieged  him  a  whole  summer  night, 
But  fled  at  morning ;  well  they  knew, 
In  vain  he  never  twanged  the  yew. 
Right  sharp  has  been  the  evening  shower 
That  drove  him  from  his  Liddel  tower ; 
And,  by  my  faith,'  the  gate- ward  said, 
•  I  think  't  will  prove  a  Warden-Raid.' 

v. 

While  thus  he  spoke,  the  bold  yeoman 
Entered  the  echoing  barbican. 
H^ed  a  small  and  shaggy  nag, 
That  through  a  bog,  from  hag  to  hag, 
Could  bound  like  any  Billhope  stag. 
It  bore  his  wife  and  children  twain ;    • 
A  half-clothed  serf  was  all  their  train  : 
His  wife,  stout,  ruddy,  and  dark-browed, 
Of  silver  brooch  and  bracelet  proud, 
Laughed  to  her  friends  among  the  crowd. 


THE   LAY  OF   THE  LAST  MINSTREL. 


29 


He  was  of  stature  passing  tall. 
But  sparely  formed  and  lean  withal : 
A  battered  morion  on  his  brow  ; 
A  leathern  jack,  as  fence  enow, 
On  his  broad  shoulders  loosely  hung ; 
A  Border  axe  behind  was  slung ; 

His  spear,  six  Scottish  ells  in  length, 
Seemed  newly  dyed  with  gore  ; 

His  shafts  and  bow,  of  wondrous  strength, 
His  hardy  partner  bore. 

VI. 

Thus  to  the  Ladye  did  Tinlinn  show 

The  tidings  of  the  English  foe : 

I  Belted  Will  Howard  is  marching  here, 

And  hot  Lord  Dacre,  with  many  a  spear, 

And  all  the  German  hackbut-men 

Who  have  long  lain  at  Askerten. 

They  crossed  the  Liddel  at  curfew  hour, 

And  burned  my  little  lonely  tower  — 

The  fiend  receive  their  souls  therefor ! 

It  had  not  been  burnt  this  year  and  more. 

Barnyard  and  dwelling,  blazing  bright, 

Served  to  guide  me  on  my  flight, 

But  I  was  chased  the  livelong  night. 

Black  John  of  Akeshaw  and  Fergus  Graeme 

Fast  upon  my  traces  came, 

Until  I  turned  at  Priesthaugh  Scrogg, 

And  shot  their  horses  in  the  bog, 

Slew  Fergus  with  my  lance  outright  — 

I  had  him  long  at  high  despite  ; 

He  drove  my  cows  last  Fastern's  night.' 


VII. 

Now  weary  scouts  from  Liddesdale, 
Fast  hurrying  in,  confirmed  the  tale  ; 
As  far  as  they  could  judge  by  ken, 

Three  hours  would  bring  to  Teviot's  strand 
Three  thousand  armed  Englishmen. 

Meanwhile,  full  many  a  warlike  band, 
From  Teviot,  Aill,  and  Ettrick  shadej 
Came  in,  their  chief's  defence  to  aid. 
There  was  saddling  and  mounting  in  haste, 

There  was  pricking  o'er  moor  and  lea ; 
He  that  was  last  at  the  try  sting-place 

Was  but  lightly  held  of  his  gay  ladye. 

VIII. 

From  fair  Saint  Mary's  silver  wave, 

From  dreary  Gamescleuch's  dusky  height, 
His  ready  lances  Thirkstane  brave 

Arrayed  beneath  a  banner  bright. 
The  tressured  fleur-de-luce  he  claims 
To  wreathe  his  shield,  since  royal  James, 
Encamped  by  Fala's  mossy  wave, 
The  proud  distinction  grateful  gave 

For  faith  mid  feudal  jars  ; 
What  time,  save  Thirlestane  alone, 
Of  Scotland's  stubborn  barons  none 

Would  march  to  southern  wars  ; 
And  hence,  in  fair  remembrance  worn, 
Yon  sheaf  of  spears  his  crest  has  borne ; 
Hence  his  high  motto  shines  revealed, 
•  Ready,  aye  ready,'  for  the  field. 


30 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL    WORKS. 


IX. 

An  aged  knight,  to  danger  steeled, 
With  many  a  moss-trooper,  came  on  ; 

And,  azure  in  a  golden  field, 

The  stars  and  crescent  graced  his  shield, 
Without  the  bend  of  Murdieston. 

Wide  lay  his  lands  round  Oakwood  Tower, 

And  wide  round  haunted  Castle-Ower ; 

High  over  Borthwick's  mountain  flood 

His  wood-embosomed  mansion  stood  ; 

In  the  dark  glen,  so  deep  below, 

The  herds  of  plundered  England  low, 

His  bold  retainers'  daily  food, 

And  bought  with  danger,  blows,  and  blood. 

Marauding  chief  !  his  sole  delight 


I 
warlike 


and  fierce  and 


The  vassals  v 

rude  ; 
High  of  heart  and  haughty  of  word, 
Little  they  recked  of  a  tame  liege-lord. 
The  earl  into  fair  Eskdale  came, 
Homage  and  seigniory  to  claim  : 
Of  Gilbert  the  Galliard  a  heriot  he  sought, 
Saying,  '  Give  thy  best  steed,  as  a  vassal 

ought.' 
'  Dear  to  me  is  my  bonny  white  steed, 
Oft  has  he  helped  me  at  pinch  of  need ; 
Lord  and  earl  though  thou  be,  I  trow, 
I  can  rein  Bucksfoot  better  than  thou.' 
Word  on  word  gave  fuel  to  fire, 
Till  so  high  blazed  the  Beattison's  ire, 


The  moonlight  raid,  the  morning  fight ; 
Not  even  the  Flower  of  Yajrow's  charms 
In  youth  might  tame  his  rage  for  arms  ; 
And  still  in  age  he  spurned  at  rest, 
And  still  his  brows  the  helmet  pressed, 
Albeit  the  blanched  locks  below 
Were  white  as  Dinlay's  spotless  snow. 
Five  stately  warriors  drew  the  sword 

Before  their  father's  band  ; 
A  braver  knight  than  Harden's  lord 

Ne'er  belted  on  a  brand. 


x. 

Scotts  of  Eskdale,  a  stalwart  band, 

Came  trooping  down  the  Todshawhill ; 

By  the  sword  they  won  their  land, 
And  by  the  sword  they  hold  it  still. 

Hearken,  Ladye,  to  the  tale 

How  thy  sires  won  fair  Eskdale. 

Earl  Morton  was  lord  of  that  valley  fair, 

The  Beattisons  were  his  vassals  there.    . 

The  earl  was  gentle  and  mild  of  mood, 


But  that  the  earl  the  flight  had  ta'en, 

The  vassals  there  their  lord  had  slain. 

Sore  he  plied  both  whip  and  spur, 

As  he  urged  his  steed  through  Eskdale  muir : 

And  it  fell  down  a  weary  weight, 

Just  on  the  threshold  of  Branksome  gate. 


The  earl  was  a  wrathful  man  to  see, 
Full  fain  avenged  would  he  be. 
In  haste  to  Branksome's  lord  he  spoke, 
Saying,  '  Take  these  traitors  to  thy  yoke  : 
For  a  cast  of  hawks,  and  a  purse  of  gold, 
All  Eskdale  I  '11  sell  thee,  to  have  and  hold  : 
Beshrew  thy  heart,  of  the  Beattisons'  clan 
If  thou  leavest  on  Eske  a  landed  man  ! 
But  spare  Woodkerrick's  lands  alone, 
For  he  lent  me  his  horse  to  escape  upon.' 
A  glad  man  then  was  Branksome  bold, 
Down  he  flung  him  the  purse  of  gold ; 
To  Eskdale  soon  he  spurred  amain, 
And  with  him  five  hundred  riders  has  ta'en. 


THE  LAY  OF   THE  LAST  MINSTREL. 


31 


He  left  his  merrymen  in  the  mist  of  the  hill, 

And  bade  them  hold  them  close  and  still ; 

And  alone  he  wended  to  the  plain, 

To  meet  with  the  Galliard  and  all  his  train. 

To  Gilbert  the  Galliard  thus  he  said : 

•  Know  thou  me  for  thy  liege-lord  and  head  ; 

Deal  not  with  me  as  with  Morton  tame, 

For  Scotts  play  best  at  the  roughest  game. 

Give  me  in  peace  my  heriot  due, 

Thy  bonny  white  steed,  or  thou  shalt  rue. 

If  my  horn  I  three  times  wind, 

Eskdale  shall  long  have  the  sound  in  mind.' 


L 


XII. 


oudly  the  Beattison  laughed  in  scorn ; 
'  Little  care  we  for  thy  winded  horn. 
Ne'er  shall  it  be  the  Galliard's  lot 
To  yield  his  steed  to  a  haughty  Scott. 
Wend  thou  to  Branksome  back  on  foot, 
With  rusty  spur  and  miry  boot.' 
He  blew  his  bugle  so  loud  and  hoarse 
That  the  dun  deer  started  at  far  Craikcross  ; 
He  blew  again  so  loud  and  clear. 
Through  the  gray  mountain-mist  there  did 

lances  appear ; 
And  the  third  blast  rang  with  such  a  din 
That  the  echoes  answered  from  Pentoun- 

linn, 
And  all  his  riders  came  lightly  in. 
Then  had  you  seen  a  gallant  shock, 
When   saddles  were   emptied   and   lances 

broke ! 
For  each  scornful  word  the  Galliard  had  said 
A  Beattison  on  the  field  was  laid. 
His  own  good  sword  the  chieftain  drew, 
And    he   bore   the   Galliard    through    and 

through ; 
Where  the  Beattisons'  blood   mixed  with 

the  rill, 
The  Galliard's  Haugh  men 

call  it  still. 
The  Scotts  have  scattered 

the  Beattison  clan, 
In    Eskdale    they  left  but 

one  landed  man. 
Th  e  valley  of  Eske,  from  the 

mouth  to  the  source, 
Was  lost  and  won  for  that 

bonny  white  horse. 

XIII. 

Whitslade  the  Hawk,  and 

Headshaw  came, 
And  warriors  more  than  I 

may  name ; 
From    Yarrow-cleugh     to 

Hindhaugh-swair, 
From  Woodhouselie  to 

Chester-glen, 


Trooped  man  and  horse,  and  bow  and  spear ; 

Their  gathering  word  was  Bellenden. 
And  better  hearts  o'er  Border  sod 
To  siege  or  rescue  never  rode. 
The  Ladye  marked  the  aids  come  in, 

And  high  her  heart  of  pride  arose ; 
She  bade  her  youthful  son  attend, 
That  he  might  know  his  father's  friend, 

And  learn  to  face  his  foes  : 
'  The  boy  is  ripe  to  look  on  war ; 

I. saw  him  draw  a  cross-bow  stiff, 
And  his  true  arrow  struck  afar 

The  raven's  nest  upon  the  cliff; 
The  red  cross  on  a  Southern  breast 
Is  broader  than  the  raven's  nest : 
Thou,    Whitslade,    shall    teach    him    his 

weapon  to  wield, 
And  o'er  him  hold  his  father's  shield.' 

XIV. 

Well  may  you  think  the  wily  page 

Cared  not  to  face  the  Ladye  sage. 

He  counterfeited  childish  fear, 

And  shrieked,  and  shed  full  many  a  tear. 

And  moaned,  and  plained  in  manner  wild. 

The  attendants  to  the  Ladye  told, 
Some  fairy,  sure,  had  changed  the  child, 

That  wont  to  be  so  free  and  bold. 
Then  wrathful  was  the  noble  dame ; 
She  blushed  blood-red  for  very  shame  : 
'  Hence  !  ere  the  clan  his  faintness  view  ; 
Hence  with  the  weakling  to  Buccleuch  !  — 
Watt  Tinlinn,  thou  shalt  be  his  guide 
To  Rangleburn's  lonely  side.  — 
Sure,  some  fell  fiend  has  cursed  our  line, 
That  coward  should  e'er  be  son  of  mine  ! ' 

xv. 
A  heavy  task  Watt  Tinlinn  had, 
To  guide  the  counterfeited  lad. 


32 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL   WORKS. 


Soon  as  the  palfrey  felt  the  weight 
Of  that  ill-omened  elfish  freight, 
He  bolted,  sprung,  and  reared  amain, 
Nor  heeded  bit  nor  curb  nor  rein. 
It  cost  Watt  Tinlinn  mickle  toil 
To  drive  him  but  a  Scottish  mile ; 

But  as  a  shallow  brook  they  crossed, 
The  elf,  amid  the  running  stream, 
His  figure  changed,  like  form  in  dream, 

And  fled,  and  shouted,  '  Lost !  lost !  lost ! ' 
/Full  fast  the  urchin  ran  and  laughed, 
But  faster  still  a  cloth-yard  shaft 
Whistled  from  startled  Tinlinn's  yew. 
And    pierced    his    shoulder    through    and 

through. 
Although  the  imp  might  not  be  slain, 
And  though  the  wound  soon  healed  again, 
Yet,  as  he  ran,  he  yelled  for  pain  ; 
And  Watt  of  Tinlinn,  much  aghast. 
Rode  back  to  Branksome  fiery  fast. 

XVI. 

Soon  on  the  hill's  steep  verge  he  stood, 
That  looks  o'er  Branksome's  towers  and 

wood ; 
And  martial  murmurs  from  below 
Proclaimed  the  approaching  Southern  foe. 
Through  the  dark  wood,  in  mingled  tone, 
Were  Border  pipes  and  bugles  blown ; 
The  coursers'  neighing  he  could  ken, 


A  measured  tread  of  marching  men  : 
While  broke  at  times  the  solemn  hum. 
The  Almayn's  sullen  kettle-drum  : 
And  banners  tall,  of  crimson  sheen, 

Above  the  copse  appear ; 
And,    glistening    through    the    hawthorns 
green, 

Shine  helm  and  shield  and  spear. 


Light  forayers  first,  to  view  the  ground, 
Spurred  their  fleet  coursers  loosely  round  ; 
Behind,  in  close  array,  and  fast, 

The  Kendal  archers,  all  in  green, 
Obedient  to  the  bugle  blast, 

Advancing  from  the  wood  were  seen. 
To  back  and  guard  the  archer  band, 
Lord  Dacre's  billmen  were  at  hand  : 
A  hardy  race,  on  Irthing  bred, 
With  kirtles  white  and  crosses  red, 
Arrayed  beneath  the  banner  tall 
That  streamed  o'er  Acre's  conquered  wall : 
And  minstrels,  as  they  marched  in  order, 
Played,  '  Noble  Lord  Dacre,  he  dwells  on 
the  Border.' 

XVIII. 

Behind  the  English  bill  and  bow 
The  mercenaries,  firm  and  slow, 
Moved  on  to  fight  in  dark  array, 


THE  LAY  OF   THE  LAST  MINSTREL. 


33 


By  Conrad  led  of  Wolfenstein, 

Who  brought  the  band  from  distant  Rhine, 

And  sold  their  blood  for  foreign  pay. 
The  camp  their  home,  their  law  the  sword, 
They  knew  no  country,  owned  no  lord : 
They  were  not  armed  like  England's  sons, 
But  bore  the  levin-darting  guns  ; 
Buff  coats,  all  frounced  and  broidered  o'er, 
And  morsing-horns  and  scarfs  they  wore ; 
Each  better  knee  was  bared,  to  aid 
The  warriors  in  the  escalade; 
All  as  they  marched,  in  rugged 

tongue 
Songs  of  Teutonic  feuds  they 

sung. 

XIX. 

But  louder  still  the  clamor  grew, 

And  loucler  still  the  minstrels 
blew, 

When,  from  beneath  the  green- 
wood tree, 

Rode  forth  Lord  Howard's  chiv- 
alry ; 

His    men-at-arms,    with    glaive 
and  spear,        f 

Brought  up  the  battle's  glitter- 
ing rear. 

There  many  a  youthful  knight, 
full  keen 

To  gain  his  spurs,  in  arms  was 
seen, 

With  favor  in  his  crest  or  glove, 

Memorial  of  his  ladye-love. 

So  rode  they  forth  in  fair  array, 

Till  full  their  lengthened  lines 
display ; 

Then  called  a  halt,  and  made  a  stand, 

And  cried,  '  Saint  George  for  merry  Eng- 
land ! ' 

xx. 

Now  every  English  eye  intent 

On  Branksome's  armed  towers  was  bent ; 

So  near  they  were  that  they  might  know 

The  straining  harsh  of  each  cross-bow ; 

On  battlement  and  bartizan 

Gleamed  axe  and  spear  and  partisan  ; 

Falcon  and  culver  on  each  tower 

Stood  prompt  their  deadly  hail  J;o  shower ; 

And  flashing  armor  frequent  broke 

From  eddying  whirls  of  sable  smoke, 

Where  upon  tower  and  turret  head 

The  seething  pitch  and  molten  lead 

Reeked  like  a  witch's  caldron  red. 

While  yet  they  gaze,  the  bridges  fall, 

The  wicket  opes,  and  from  the  wall 

Rides  forth  the  hoary  seneschal. 

XXI. 

Armed  he  rode,  all  save  the  head, 

His  white  beard  o'er  his  breastplate  spread  ; 


Unbroke  by  age,  erect  his  seat, 
He  ruled  his  eager  courser's  gait, 
Forced  him  with  chastened  fire  to  prance, 
And,  high  curvetting,  slow  advance  : 
In  sign  of  truce,  his  better  hand 
Displayed  a  peeled  willow  wand  ; 
His  squire,  attending  in  the  rear, 
Bore  high  a  gauntlet  on  a  spear. 
When  they  espied  him  riding  out, 
Lord  Howard  and  Lord  Dacre  stout 


Sped  to  the  front  of  their  array, 

To  hear  what  this  old  knight  should  say, 

XXII. 

'  Ye  English  warden  lords,  of  you 
Demands  the  Ladye  of  Buccleuch, 
Why,  'gainst  the  truce  of  Border  tide, 
In  hostile  guise  ye  dare  to  ride, 
With  Kendal  bow  and  Gilsland  brand, 
And  all  yon  mercenary  band, 
Upon  the  bounds  of  fair  Scotland  ? 
My  Ladye  reads  you  swith  return; 
And,  if  out  one  poor  straw  you  burn, 
Or  do  our  towers  so  much  molest 
As  scare  one  swallow  from  her  nest, 
Saint  Mary  !  but  we  '11  light  a  brand 
Shall  warm  your  hearths  in  Cumberland.' 

XXIII. 

A  wrathful  man  was  Dacre's  lord, 
But  calmer  Howard  took  the  word: 
'  May 't  please  thy  dame,  Sir  Seneschal, 
To  seek  the  castle's  outward  wall, 
Our  pursuivant-at-arms  shall  show 
Both  why  we  came  and  when  we  go.' 


34 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL    WORKS. 


The  message  sped,  the  noble  dame 
To  the  wall's  outward  circle  came ; 
Each  chief  around  leaned  on  his  spear, 
To  see  the  pursuivant  appear. 
All  in  Lord  Howard's  livery  dressed, 
The  lion  argent  decked  his  breast ; 
He  led  a  boy  of  blooming  hue  — 
O  sight  to  meet  a  mother's  view  ! 
It  was  the  heir  of  great  Buccleuch. 
Obeisance  meet  the  herald  made, 
And  thus  his  master's  will  he  said: 

XXIV. 

c  It  irks,  high  dame,  my  noble  lords, 
'Gainst  ladye  fair  to  draw  their  swords  ; 
But  yet  they  may  not  tamely  see, 
All  through  the  Western  Wardenry, 
Your  law-contemning  kinsmen  ride, 
And  burn  and  spoil  the  Border-side  ; 
And  ill  beseems  your  rank  and  birth 
To  make  your  towers  a  flemens-firth. 
We  claim  from  thee  William  of  Deloraine, 
That  he  may  suffer  march-treason  pain. 
It  was  but  last  Saint  Cuthbert's  even 
He  pricked  to  Stapleton  on  Leven, 
Harried  the  lands  of  Richard  Musgrave, 
And  slew  his  brother  by  dint  of  glaive. 
Then,  since  a  lone  and  widowed  dame 
These  restless  riders  may  not  tame, 
Either  receive  within  thy  towers 
Two  hundred  of  my  master's  powers, 


Or  straight  they  sound  their  warrison, 
And  storm  and  spoil  thy  garrison  ; 
And  this  fair  boy,  to  London  led, 
Shall  good  King  Edward's  page  be  bred.' 

XXV. 

He  ceased  — and  loud  the  boy  did  cry, 
And  stretched  his  little  arms  on  high, 
Implored  for  aid  each  well-known  face, 
And  strove  to  seek  the  dame's  embrace. 
A  moment  changed  that  Ladye's  cheer, 
Gushed  to  her  eye  the  unbidden  tear ; 
She  gazed  upon  the  leaders  round, 
And  dark  and  sad  each  warrior  frowned ; 
Then  deep  within  her  sobbing  breast 
She  locked  the  struggling  sigh  to  rest, 
Unaltered  and  collected  stood, 
And  thus  replied  in  dauntless  mood  : 

xxvi. 
'  Say  to  your  lords  of  high  emprise 
Who  war  on  women  and  on  boys, 
That  either  William  of  Deloraine 
Will  cleanse  him  by  oath  of  march-treason 

stain, 
Or  else  he  will  the  combat  take  • 

'Gainst  Musgrave  for  his  honor's  sake. 
No  knight  in  Cumberland  so  good 
But  William  may  count  with  him  kin  and 

blood. 
Knighthood  he  took  of  Douglas'  sword, 


Z0Zz^^. 


THE   LAY  OF   THE  LAST  MINSTREL. 


35 


When   English  blood  swelled 

Ancram  ford; 
And  but   Lord  Dacre's   steed 

was  wight, 
And  bare  him  ably  in  the  flight, 
Himself  had  seen  him  dubbed 

a  knight. 
For  the  young  heir  of  Brank- 

some's  line, 
God  be  his  aid,  and  God  be 

mine  ! 
Through    me  no   friend    shall 

meet  his  doom ; 
Here,  while  I  live,  no  foe  finds 

room. 
Then,  if  thy  lords  their  purpose 

urge, 
Take  our  defiance  loud  and 

high  ; 
Our  slogan  is  their  lyke-wake 

dirge, 
Our  moat  the  grave  where 

they  shall  lie.' 

XXVII. 

Proud  she  looked  round,  ap- 
plause to  claim  — 
Then  lightened  Thirlestane's 
eye  of  flame ; 

His'  bugle  Wat  of  Harden 
blew ; 
Pensils  and  pennons  wide  were  flung, 
To  heaven  the  Border  slogan  rung, 

'  Saint  Mary  for  the  young  Buccleuch  ! ' 
The  English  war-cry  answered  wide, 

And  forward  bent  each  Southern  spear ; 
Each  Kendal  archer  made  a  stride, 

And  drew  the  bowstring  to  his  ear; 
Each  minstrel's  war-note  loud  was  blown ;  — 
But,  ere  a  gray-goose  shaft  had  flown, 

A  horseman  galloped  from  the  rear. 


XXVIII. 

'  Ah  !  noble  lords  ! '  he  breathless  said, 
'  What  treason  has  your  march  betrayed  ? 
What  make  you  here  from  aid  so  far, 
Before  you  walls,  around  you  war  ? 
Your  foerhen  triumph  in  the  thought 
That  in  the  toils  the  lion  's  caught. 
Already  on  dark  Ruberslaw 
The  Douglas  holds  his  weapon-schaw ; 
The  lances,  waving  in  his  train, 
Clothe  the  dun  heath  like  autumn  grain ; 
And  on  the  Liddel's  northern  strand, 
To  bar  retreat  to  Cumberland, 
Lord  Maxwell  ranks  his  merrymen  good 
Beneath  the  eagle  and  the  rood; 
And  Jedwood,  Eske,  and  Teviotdale, 
Have  to  proud  Angus  come  ; 


And  all  the  Merse  and  Lauderdale 
Have  risen  with  haughty  Home. 

An  exile  from  Northumberland, 
In  Liddesdale  I  've  wandered  long, 

But  still  my  heart  was  with  merry  England, 
And  cannot  brook  my  country's  wrong ; 

And  hard  I  've  spurred  all  night,  to  show 

The  mustering  of  the  coming  foe.' 

XXIX. 

'  And  let  them  come  ! '  fierce  Dacre  cried  ; 
'  For  soon  yon  crest,  my  father's  pride, 
That  swept  the  shores  of  Judah's  sea, 
And  waved  in  gales  of  Galilee, 
From    Branksome's    highest    towers    dis- 
played, 
Shall  mock  the  rescue's  lingering  aid  !  — ■ 
Level  each  harquebuss  on  row ; 
Draw,  merry  archers,  draw  the  bow  ; 
Up,  billmen,  to  the  walls,  and  cry, 
Dacre  for  England,  win  or  die  ! ' '—  *" 


'  Yet  hear,'  quoth  Howard,  'calmly  hear, 
Nor  deem  my  words  the  words  of  fear : 
For  who,  in  field  or  foray  slack, 
Saw  the  Blanche  Lion  e'er  fall  back  ? 
But  thus  to  risk  our  Border  flower 
In  strife  against  a  kingdom's  power, 


36 


scorrs  poetical  works. 


Ten  thousand  Scots  'gainst  thousands  three, 

Certes,  were  desperate  policy. 

Nay,  take  the  terms  the  Ladye  made 

Ere  conscious  of  the  advancing  aid  : 

Let  Musgrave  meet  fierce  Deloraine 

In  single  fight,  and  if  he  gain, 

He  gains  for  us  ;  but  if  he  's  crossed, 

'T  is  but  a  single  warrior  lost  : 

The  rest,  retreating  as  they  came, 

Avoid  defeat  and  death  and  shame.' 

XXXI. 

Ill  could  the  haughty  Dacre  brook 
His  brother  warden's  sage  rebuke  ; 
And  yet  his  forward  step  he  stayed, 
And  slow  and  sullenly  obeyed. 
But  ne'er  again  the  Border  side 
Did  these  two  lords  in  friendship  ride ; 
And  this  slight  discontent,  men  say, 
Cost  blood  upon  another  day. 


The  pursuivant-at-arms  again 
Before  the  castle  took  his  stand  : 

His  trumpet  called  with  parleying  strain 
The  leaders  of  the  Scottish  band ; 

And  he  defied,  in  Musgrave's  right. 

Stout  Deloraine  to  single  fight. 


A  gauntlet  at  their  feet  he  laid. 
And  thus  the  terms  of  fight  he  said  : 
'  If  in  the  lists  good  Musgrave's  sword 

Vanquish  the  Knight  of  Deloraine, 
Your  youthful  chieftain,  Branksome's  lord, 

Shall  hostage  for  his  clan  remain  ; 
If  Deloraine  foil  good  Musgrave, 
The  boy  his  liberty  shall  have. 

Howe'er  it  falls,'  the  English  band, 
Unharming  Scots,  by  Scots  unharmed, 
In  peaceful  march,  like  men  unarmed, 

Shall  straight  retreat  to  Cumberland.' 

XXXIII. 

Unconscious  of  the  near  relief, 

The  proffer  pleased  each  Scottish  chief, 

Though  much  the  Ladye  sage  gainsaid  : 
For  though  their  hearts  were  brave  and  true. 
From  Jedwood's  recent  sack  they  knew 

How  tardy  was  the  Regent's  aid : 
And  you  may  guess  the  noble  dame 

Durst  not  the  secret  prescience  own, 
Sprung  from  the  art  she  might  not  name, 

By  which  the  coming  help  was  known. 
Closed  was  the  compact,  and  agreed 
That  lists  should  be  enclosed  with  speed 

Beneath  the  castle  on  a  lawn : 
Thev  fixed  the  morrow  for  the  strife, 


THE  LAY  OF   THE  LAST  MINSTREL.  3; 


On  foot,  with  Scottish  axe  and  knife, 

At  the  fourth  hour  from  peep  of  dawn  ; 
When  Deloraine,  from  sickness  freed, 
Or  else  a  champion  in  his  stead, 
Should  for  himself  and  chieftain  stand 
Against  stout  Musgrave,  hand  to  hand. 

xxxiv. 

I  know  right  well  that  in  their  lay 
Full  many  minstrels  sing  and  say 

Such  combat  should  be  made  on  horse, 
On  foaming  steed,  in  full  career, 
With  brand  to  aid,  whenas  the  spear 

Should  shiver  in  the  course  : 
But  he,  the  jovial  harper,  taught 
Me,  yet  a  youth,  how  it  was  fought, 

In  guise  which  now  I  say  ; 
He  knew  each  ordinance  and  clause 
Of  Black  Lord  Archibald's  bat'tle-laws, 

In  the  old  Douglas'  day. 
He  brooked  not,  he,  that  scoffing  tongue 
Should  tax  his  minstrelsy  with  wrong, 

Or  call  his  song  untrue  : 


For  this,  when  they  the  goblet  plied, 
And  such  rude  taunt  had  chafed  his  pride, 

The  Bard  of  Reull  he  slew. 
On  Teviot's  side  in  fight  they  stood, 
And  tuneful  hands  were  stained  with  blood, 
Where  still  the  thorn's  white  branches  wave, 
Memorial  o'er  his  rival's  grave. 

xxxv. 

Why  should  I  tell  the  rigid  doom 
That  dragged  my  master  to  his  tomb  ; 

How  Ousenam's  maidens  tore  their  hair, 
Wept  till  their  eyes  were  dead  and  dim, 
And  wrung  their  hands  for  love  of  him 

Who  died  at  Jedwood  Air  ? 
He  died  !  —  his  scholars,  one  by  one, 
To  the  cold  silent  grave  are  gone  ; 
And  I,  alas  !  survive  alone, 
To  muse  o'er  rivalries  of  yore, 
And  grieve  that  I  shall  hear  no  more 
The  strains,  with  envy  heard  before  ; 
For,  with  my  minstrel  brethren  fled, 
My  jealousy  of  song  is  dead. 


38 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL    WORKS. 


He  paused  :  the  listening  dames  again 
Applaud  the  hoary  Minstrel's  strain. 
With  many  a  word  of  kindly  cheer,  — 
In  pity  half,  and  half  sincere, — 
Marvelled  the  Duchess  how  so  well 
His  legendary  song  could  tell 
Of  ancient  deeds,  so  long  forgot ; 
Of  feuds,  whose  memory  was  not ; 
Of  forests,  now  laid  waste  and  bare  ; 
Of  towers,  which  harbor  now  the  hare  ; 
Of  manners,  long  since  changed  and  gone ; 
Of  chiefs,  who  under  their  gray  stone 
So  long  had  slept  that  fickle  Fame 
Had  blotted  from  her  rolls  their  name, 
And  twined  round  some  new  minion's  head 
The  fading  wreath  for  which  they  bled  : 
In  sooth,   X  was  strange  this  old  man's  verse 
Could  call  them  from  their  marble  hearse. 

P 
The  harper  smiled,  well  pleased  ;  for  ne'er 

Was  flattery  lost  on  poet's  ear. 

A  simple  race  !  they  waste  their  toil 

For  the  vain  tribute  of  a  smile ; 

E'en  when  in  age  their  flame  expires, 

Her  dulcet  breath  can  fan  its  fires  : 

Their  drooping  fancy  wakes  at  praise, 

And  strives  to  trim  the  short-lived  blaze. 

Smiled  then,  well  pleased,  the  aged  man, 
And  thus  his  tale  continued  ran. 


&J)e  Hag  of  tlje  Hast  fKinstwl. 


CAXTO   FIFTH. 


Call  it  not  vain  :  —  they  do  not  err, 
Who  say  that  when  the  poet  dies 

Mute  Nature  mourns  her  worshipper 
And  celebrates  his  obsequies  ; 

Who  say  tall  cliff  and  cavern  lone 

For  the  departed  bard  make  moan ; 

That  mountains  weep  in  crystal  rill ; 

That  flowers  in  tears  of  balm  distil; 

Through  his  loved  groves  that  breezes  sigh, 

And  oaks  in  deeper  groan  reply, 

And  rivers  teach  their  rushing  wave 

To  murmur  dirges  round  his  grave. 


Not  that,  in  sooth,  o'er  mortal  urn 
Those  things  inanimate  can  mourn, 
But  that  the  stream,  the  wood,  the  gale, 
Is  vocal  with  the  plaintive  wail 


Of  those  who,  else  forgotten  long, 

Lived  in  the  poet's  faithful  song, 

And,  with  the  poet's  parting  breath, 

Whose  memory  feels  a  second  death. 

The  maid's  pale  shade,  who  wails  her  lot. 

That  love,  true  love,  should  be  forgot, 

From  rose  and  hawthorn  shakes  the  tear 

Upon  the  gentle  minstrel's  bier  : 

The  phantom  knight,  his  glory  fled, 

Mourns  o'er  the  field  he  heaped  with  dead, 

Mounts  the  wild  blast  that  sweeps  amain 

And  shrieks  along  the  battle-plain  ; 

The  chief,  whose  antique  crownlet  long 

Still  sparkled  in  the  feudal  song, 

Now,  from  the  mountain's  misty  throne, 

Sees,  in  the  thanedom  once  his  own, 

His  ashes  undistinguished  lie, 

His  place,  his  power,  his  memory  die  ; 

His  groans  the  lonely  caverns  fill, 

His  tears  of  rage  impel  the  rill ; 

All  mourn  the  minstrel's  harp  unstrung, 

Their  name  unknown,  their  praise  unsung. 

in. 

Scarcely  the  hot  assault  was  stayed, 
The  terms  of  truce  were  scarcely  made, 
When  they  could  spy,  from  Branksome's 

towers, 
The  advancing  march  of  martial  powers. 
Thick  clouds  of  dust  afar  appeared, 
And  trampling  steeds  were  faintly  heard  ; 
Bright  spears  above  the  columns  dun 
Glanced  momentary  to  the  sun  : 
And  feudal  banners  fair  displayed 
The  bands  that  moved  to  Branksome's  aid. 


IV. 

Vails  not  to  tell  each  hardy  clan, 

From  the  fair  Middle  Marches  came 
The  Bloody  Heart  blazed  in  the  van, 

Announcing  Douglas,  dreaded  name  ! 
Vails  not  to  tell  what  steeds  did  spurn, 
Where  the  Seven  Spears  of  Wedderburne 

Their  men  in  battle-order  set, 
And  Swinton  laid  the  lance  in  rest 
That  tamed  of  yore  the  sparkling  crest 

Of  Clarence's  Plantagenet. 
Nor  list  I  say  what  hundreds  more, 
From  the  rich  Merse  and  Lammermore, 
And  Tweed's  fair  borders,  to  the  war, 
Beneath  the  crest  of  Old  Dunbar 

And  Hepburn's  mingled  banners,  come 
Down  the  steep  mountain  glittering  far, 

And  shouting  still,  'A  Home  !  a  Home  ! 


Now  squire  and  knight,  from  Branksome 

sent, 
On  many  a  courteous  message  went : 


THE  LAY  OF  THE  LAST  MINSTREL. 


39 


To  every  chief  and  lord  they  paid 
Meet  thanks  for  prompt  and  powerful  aid, 
And  told  them  how  a  truce  was  made, 
And  how  a  day  of  fight  was  ta'en 
'Twixt  Musgrave  and  stout  Deloraine  ; 

And  how  the  Ladye  prayed  them  dear 
That  all  would  stay  the  fight  to  see, 
And  deign,  in  love  and  courtesy, 

To  taste  of  Branksome  cheer. 
Nor,  while  they  bade  to  feast  each  Scot, 
Were  England's  noble  lords  forgot. 
Himself,  the  hoary  seneschal, 
Rode  forth,  in  seemly  terms  to  call 
Those  gallant  foes  to  Branksome  Hall. 
Accepted  Howard,  than  whom  knight 
Was  never  dubbed,  more  bold  in  fight. 
Nor,  when  from  war  and  armor  free, 
More  famed  for  stately  courtesy  ; 
But  angry  Dacre  rather  chose 
In  his  pavilion  to  repose. 


Now,  noble  dame,  perchance  you  ask 
How  these  two  hostile  armies  met, 

Deeming  it  were  no  easy  task 
To  keep  the  truce  which  here  was  set ; 

Where  martial  spirits,  all  on  fire, 

Breathed  only  blood  and  mortal  ire. 

By  mutual  inroads,  mutual  blows, 

By  habit,  and  by  nation,  foes, 
They  met  on  Teviot's  strand ; 


They  met  and  sate  them  mingled  down, 
Without  a  threat,  without  a  frown, 

As  brothers  meet  in  foreign  land  : 
The  hands,  the  spear  that  lately  grasped, 
Still  in  the  mailed  gauntlet  clasped, 

Were  interchanged  in  greeting  dear; 
Visors  were  raised  and  faces  shown, 
And  many  a  friend,  to  friend  made  known, 

Partook  of  social  cheer. 
Some  drove  the  jolly  bowl  about ; 

With  dice  and  draughts  some  chased  the 
day; 
And  some,  with  many  a  merry  shout, 
In  riot,  revelry,  and  rout, 

Pursued  the  football  play. 

VII. 

Yet,  be  it  known,  had  bugles  blown 

Or  sign  of  war  been  seen, 
Those  bands,  so  fair  together  ranged. 
Those  hands,  so  frankly  interchanged, 

Had  dyed  with  gore  the  green : 
The  merry  shout  by  Teviot-side 
Had  sunk  in  war-cries  wild  and  wide, 

And  in  the  groan  of  death  ; 
And  whingers,  now  in  friendship  bare, 
The  social  meal  to  part  and  share, 

Had  found  a  bloody  sheath. 
'Twixt  truce  and  war,  such  sudden  change 
Was  not  infrequent,  nor  held  strange, 

In  the  old  Border-day  ; 


40 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL    WORKS. 


But  yet  on  Branksome's  towers  and  town, 
In  peaceful  merriment,  sunk  down 
The  sun's  declining  ray. 

VIII. 

The  blithesome  signs  of  wassail  gay 
Decayed  not  with  the  dying  day  ; 
Soon  through  the  latticed  windows  tall 
Of  lofty  Branksome's  lordly  hall, 
Divided  square  by  shafts  of  stone, 
Huge  flakes  of  ruddy  lustre  shone  ; 


Nor  less  the  gilded  rafters  rang 
With  merry  harp  and  beakers'  clang ; 
And  frequent,  on  the  darkening  plain, 

Loud  hollo,  whoop,  or  whistle  ran, 
As  bands,  their  stragglers  to  regain, 

Give  the  shrill  watchword  of  their  clan 
And  revellers,  o'er  their  bowls,  proclaim 
Douglas'  or  Dacre's  conquering  name. 


Less  frequent  heard,  and  fainter  still, 

At  length  the  various  clamors  died, 
And  you  might  hear  from  Branksome  hill 

No  sound  but  Teviot's  rushing  tide  ; 
Save  when  the  changing  sentinel 
The  challenge  of  his  watch  could  tell ; 
And  save  where,  through  the  dark  profound, 
The  clanging  axe  and  hammer's  sound 

Rung  from  the  nether  lawn; 
For  many  a  busy  hand  toiled  there, 
Strong  pales  to  shape  and  beams  to  square, 
The  lists'  dread  barriers  to  prepare 

Against  the  morrow's  dawn. 


Margaret  from  hall  did  soon  retreat. 
Despite  the  dame's  reproving  eye  ; 
Nor  marked  she,  as  she  left  her  seat. 

Full  many  a  stifled  sigh  : 
For  many  a  noble  warrior  strove 
To  win  the  Flower  of  Teviot's  love, 

And  many  a  bold  ally. 
With  throbbing  head  and  anxious  heart, 
All  in  her  lonely  bower  apart, 
In  broken  sleep  she  lay. 

By  times,  from  silken  couch  she  rose  : 
While  yet  the  bannered  hosts  repose. 

She  viewed  the  dawning  day  : 
Of  all  the  hundreds  sunk  to  rest, 
First  woke  the  loveliest  and  the  best. 


XI. 

She  gazed  upon  the  inner  court, 
Which   in  the  tower's  tall  shadow- 
lay, 
Where  coursers'  clang  and  stamp  and 
snort 
Had  rung  the  livelong  yesterday  : 
Now  still  as  death ;  till  stalking  slow,  — 
The  jingling  spurs  announced   his 
tread,  — 
A  stately  warrior  passed  below  ; 
But   when   he    raised    his    plumed 
head  — 
Blessed  Mary  !  can  it  be  ?  — 
Secure,  as  if  in  Ousenam  bowers, 
He  walks  through  Branksome's  hostile 
towers, 
With  fearless  step  and  free. 
She  dared  not  sign,  she  dared  not  speak  — 
O,  if  one  page's  slumbers  break, 
His  blood  the  price  must  pay  ! 
Not  all  the  pearls  Queen  Mary  wears, 
Not  Margaret's  yet  more  precious  tears, 
Shall  buy  his  life  a  day. 


XII. 

Yet  was  his  hazard  small;  for  well 
You  may  bethink  you  of  the  spell 

Of  that  sly  urchin  page  : 
This  to  his  lord  he  did  impart, 
And  made  him  seem,  by  glamour  art, 

A  knight  from  Hermitage. 
Unchallenged,  thus,  the  warder's  post, 
The  court,  unchallenged,  thus  he  crossed, 

For  all  the  vassalage  ; 
But  O,  what  magic's  quaint  disguise 
Could  blind  fair  Margaret's  azure  eyes  ! 

She  started  from  her  seat ; 
While  with  surprise  and  fear  she  strove, 
And  both  could  scarcely  master  love  — 

Lord  Henry  's  at  her  feet. 


THE  LAY  OF   THE   LAST  MINSTREL. 


41 


Oft  have  I  mused  what  purpose  bad 
That  foul  malicious  urchin  had 
To  bring  this  meeting  round, 
For  happy  love  's  a  heavenly  sight, 
And  by  a  vile  malignant  sprite 


In  such  no  joy  is  found ; 
And  oft  I  've  deemed,  perchance  he  thought 
Their  erring  passion  might  have  wrought 

Sorrow  and  sin  and  shame, 
And  death  to  Cranstoun's  gallant  Knight, 
And  to  the  gentle  Ladye  bright 


42 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL    WORKS. 


Disgrace  and  loss  of  fame. 
But  earthly  spirit  could  not  tell 
The  heart  of  them  that  loved  so  well. 
True  love  's  the  gift  which  God  has  given 
To  man  alone  beneath  the  heaven  : 
It  is  not  fantasy's  hot  fire, 

Whose  wishes,  soon  as  granted,  fly 
It  liveth  not  in  fierce  desire, 

With  dead  desire  it  doth  not  die; 
It  is  the  secret  sympathy, 
The  silver  link,  the  silken  tie, 
Which  heart  to  heart,  and  mind  to  mind, 
In  body  and  in  soul  can  bind.  — 
Now  leave  we  Margaret  and  her  knight, 
To  tell  you  of  the  approaching  fight. 

XIV. 

Their  warning  blasts  the  bugles  blew, 

The  pipe's  shrill  port  aroused  each  clan 
In  haste  the  deadly  strife  to  view, 

The  trooping  warriors  eager  ran  : 
Thick  round  the  lists  their  lances  stood, 
Like  blasted  pines  in  Ettrick  wood ; 
To  Branksome  many  a  look  they  threw. 
The  combatants'  approach  to  view, 
And  bandied  many  a  word  of  boast 
About  the  knight  each  favored  most. 

xv. 

Meantime  full  anxious  was  the  dame: 

For  now  arose  disputed  claim 

Of  who  should  fight  for  Deloraine, 


'Twixt  Harden  and  'twixt  Thirlestane. 
They  gan  to  reckon  kin  and  rent, 
And  frowning  brow  on  brow  was  bent ; 

But  yet  not  long  the  strife  —  for,  lo  ! 
Himself,  the  Knight  of  Deloraine, 
Strong,  as  it  seemed,  and  free  from  pain, 

In  armor  sheathed  from  top  to  toe, 
Appeared  and  craved  the  combat  due. 
The  dame  her  charm  successful  knew, 
And  the  fierce  chiefs  their  claims  withdrew. 

XVI. 

When  for  the  lists  they  sought  the  plain, 
The  stately  Ladye's  silken  rein 

Did  noble  Howard  hold  : 
Unarmed  by  her  side  he  walked, 
And  much  in  courteous  phrase  they  talked 

Of  feats  of  arms  of  old. 
Costly  his  garb  —  his  Flemish  ruff 
Fell  o'er  his  doublet,  shaped  of  buff. 

With  satin  slashed  and  lined  ; 
Tawny  his  boot,  and  gold  his  spur, 
His  cloak  was  all  of  Poland  fur, 

His  hose  with  silver  twined  ; 
His  Bilboa  blade,  by  Marchmen  felt, 
Hung  in  a  broad  and  studded  belt ; 
Hence,  in  rude  phrase,  the  Borderers  still 
Called  noble  Howard  Belted  Will. 

XVII. 

Behind  Lord  Howard  and  the  dame 
Fair  Margaret  on  her  palfrey  came. 


THE  LA  V  OF   THE  LAST  MINSTREL. 


43 


Whose  footcloth  swept  the  ground  ; 
White  was  her  wimple  and  her  veil, 
And  her  loose  locks  a  chaplet  pale 

Of  whitest  roses  bound ; 
The  lordly  Angus,  by  her  side, 
In  courtesy  to  cheer  her  tried  ; 
Without  his  aid,  her  hand  in  vain 
Had  strove  to  guide  her  broidered  rein. 
He  deemed  she  shuddered  at  the  sight 
Of  warriors  met  for  mortal  fight ; 
But  cause  of  terror,  all  unguessed, 
Was  fluttering  in  her  gentle  breast, 
When,  in  their  chairs  of  crimson  placed, 
The  dame  and  she  the  barriers  graced. 

XVIII. 

Prize  of  the  field,  the  young  Buccleuch 
An  English  knight  led  forth  to  view ; 
Scarce  rued  the  boy  his  present  plight, 
So  much  he  longed  to  see  the  fight. 
Within  the  lists  in  knightly  pride 
High. Home  and  haughty  Dacre  ride; 
Their  leading  staffs  of  steel  they  wield, 
As  marshals  of  the  mortal  field, 
While  to  each  knight  their  care  assigned 
Like  vantage  of  the  sun  and.  wind. 
Then  heralds  hoarse  did  loud  proclaim, 
In  King  and  Queen  and  Warden's  name, 


That  none,  while  lasts  the  strife, 
Should  dare,  by  look  or  sign  or  word, 
Aid  to  a  champion  to  afford, 

On  peril  of  his  life  ; 
And  not  a  breath  the  silence  broke 
Till  thus  the  alternate  heralds  spoke  :  — 

XIX. 

ENGLISH   HERALD. 

'  Here  standeth  Richard  of  Musgrave, 

Good  knight  and  true,  and  freely  born, 
Amends  from  Deloraine  to  crave, 

For  foul  despiteous  scathe  and  scorn. 
He  sayeth  that  William  of  Deloraine 

Is  traitor  false  by  Border  laws ; 
This  with  his  sword  he  will  maintain, 

So  help  him  God  and  his  good  cause  ! ' 

xx. 

SCOTTISH    HERALD. 

'  Here  standeth  William  of  Deloraine, 
Good  knight  and  true,  of  noble  strain, 
Who  sayeth  that  foul  treason's  stain, 
Since  he  bore  arms,  ne'er  soiled  his  coat ; 

And  that,  so  help  him  God  above  ! 

He  will  on  Musgrave's  body  prove 
He  lies  most  foully  in  his  throat' 


44 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL    WORKS. 


LORD    DACRE. 

1  Forward,  brave  champions,  to  the  fight ! 
Sound  trumpets  ! ' 

LORD    HOME. 

1  God  defend  the  right ! '  - 

Then,  Teviot,  how  thine  echoes  rang, 
When  bugle-sound  and  trumpet-clang 
Let  loose  the  martial  foes, 


XXIII. 

In  haste  the  holy  friar  sped  ;  — 
His  naked  foot  was  dyed  with  red, 

As  through  the  lists  he  ran ; 
Unmindful  of  the  shouts  on  high 
That  hailed  the  conqueror's  victory, 

He  raised  the  dying  man  ; 
Loose  waved  his  silver  beard  and  hair, 
As  o'er  him  he  kneeled  down  in  prayer 


And  in  mid-list,  with  shield  poised  high, 
And  measured  step  and  wary  eye, 
The  combatants  did  close  ! 

XXI. 

Ill  would  it  suit  your  gentle  ear, 

Ye  lovely  listeners,  to  hear 

How  to  the  axe  the  helms  did  sound, 

And    blood    poured    down    from    many    a 

wound  ; 
For  desperate  was  the  strife  and  long, 
And  either  warrior  fierce  and  strong. 
But,  were  each  dame  a  listening  knight, 
I  well  could  tell  how  warriors  fight ; 
For  I  have  seen  war's  lightning  flashing, 
Seen  the  claymore  with  bayonet  clashing, 
Seen    through    red    blood    the    v/ar-horse 

dashing, 
And  scorned,  amid  the  reeling  strife, 
To  yield  a  step  for  death  or  life. 

XXII. 

'T  is  done,  't  is  done  !  that  fatal  blow 

Has  stretched  him  on  the  bloody  plain ; 
He  strives  to  rise  —  brave  Musgrave,  no  ! 

Thence  never  shalt  thou  rise  again  ! 
He  chokes  in  blood  —  some  friendly  hand 
Undo  the  visor's  barred  band, 
Unfix  the  gorget's  iron  clasp, 
And  give  him  room  for  life  to  gasp  !  — 
O,  bootless  aid  !  —  haste,  holy  friar, 
Haste,  ere  the  sinner  shall  expire  ! 
Of  all  his  guilt  let  him  be  shriven, 
And  smooth  his  path  from  earth  to  heaven  ! 


And  still  the  crucifix  on  high 
He  holds  before  his  darkening  eye; 
And  still  he  bends  an  anxious  ear, 
His  faltering  penitence  to  hear  ; 

Still  props  him  from  the  bloody  sod, 
Still,  even  when  soul  and  body  part, 
Pours  ghostly  comfort  on  his  heart, 

And  bids  him  trust  in  God  ! 
Unheard  he  prays ;  —  the  death-pang 's  o'er 
Richard  of  Musgrave  breathes  no  more. 

xxiv. 
As  if  exhausted  in  the  fight, 
Or  musing  o'er  the  piteous  sight, 

The  silent  victor  stands  ; 
His  beaver  did  he  not  unclasp, 
Marked  not  the  shouts,  felt  not  the  grasp 

Of  gratulating  hands. 
When  lo  !  strange  cries  of  wild  surprise, 
Mingled  with  seeming  terror,  rise 

Among  the  Scottish  bands  ; 
And  all,  amid  the  thronged  array, 
In  panic  haste  gave  open  way 
To  a  half-naked  ghastly  man, 
Who  downward  from  the  castle  ran  : 
He  crossed  the  barriers  at  a  bound, 
And  wild  and  haggard  looked  around, 

As  dizzy  and  in  pain  ; 
And  all  upon  the  armed  ground 

Knew  William  of  Deloraine  ! 
Each  ladye  sprung  from  seat  with  speed ; 
Vaulted  each  marshal  from  his  steed; 

'  And  who  art  thou,'  they  cried, 
'  Who  hast  this  battle  fought  and  won  ?  ' 


THE  LA  Y  OF   THE  LAST  MINSTREL. 


45 


His  plumed  helm  was  soon  undone  — 

1  Cranstoun  of  Teviot-side  ! 
For  this  fair  prize  I  've  fought  and  won, 
And  to  the  Ladye  led  her  son. 


XXV. 


Full  oft  the  rescued  boy  she  kissed, 
And  often  pressed  him  to  her  breast, 


Their  influence  kindly  stars  may  shower 
On  Teviot's  tide  and  Branksome's  tower, 

For  pride  is  quelled  and  love  is  free.' 
She  took  fair  Margaret  by  the  hand, 
Who,  breathless,  trembling,  scarce   might 
stand ; 

That  hand  to  Cranstoun's  lord  gave  she  : 
1  As  I  am  true  to  thee  and  thine, 
Do  thou  be  true  to  me  and  mine  ! 


For,  under  all  her  dauntless  show, 

Her  heart  had  throbbed  at  every  blow; 

Yet  not  Lord  Cranstoun  deigned  she  greet, 

Though  low  he  kneeled  at  her  feet. 

Me  lists  not  tell  what  words  were  made, 

What  Douglas,  Home,  and  Howard  said  — 

For  Howard  was  a  generous  foe  — 
And  how  the  clan  united  prayed 

The  Ladye  would  the  feud  forego, 
And  deign  to  bless  the  nuptial  hour 
Of  Cranstoun's  lord  and  Teviot's  Flower. 


XXVI. 


She  looked  to  river,  looked  to  hill, 
Thought  on  the  Spirit's  prophecy, 

Then  broke  her  silence  stern  and  still : 
;  Not  you,  but  Fate,  has  vanquished  me  ; 


This  clasp  of  love  our  bond  shall  be, 
For  this  is  your  betrothing  day, 
And  all  these  noble  lords  shall  stay, 

To  grace  it  with  their  company.' 

XXVII. 

All  as  they  left  the  listed  plain, 

•Much  of  the  story  she  did  gain  : 

How  Cranstoun  fought  with  Deloraine, 

And  of  his  page,  and  of  the  book. 

Which  from  the  wounded  knight  he  took ; 

And  how  he  sought  her  castle  high, 

That  morn,  by  help  of  gramarye  ; 

Hqw,  in  Sir  William's  armor  dight, 

Stolen  by  his  page,  while  slept  the  knight, 

He  took  on  him  the  single  fight. 

But  half  his  tale  he  left  unsaid, 


46 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL    WORKS. 


And  lingered  till  he  joined  the  maid. — 
Cared  not  the  Ladye  to  betray 
Her  mystic  arts  in  view  of  day ; 
But  well  she  thought,  ere  midnight  came, 
Of  that  strange  page  the  pride  to  tame, 
From  his  foul  hands  the  book  to  save, 
And  send  it  back  to  Michael's  grave.  — 
Needs  not  to  tell  each  tender  word 
'Twixt   Margaret  .and   'twixt    Cranstoun's 

lord ; 
Nor  how  she  told  of  former  woes, 
And  how  her  bosom  fell  and  rose 
While  he  and  Musgrave  bandied  blows.  — 
Needs  not  these  lovers'  joys  to  tell ; 
One  day,  fair  maids,  you  '11  know  them  well. 

XXVIII. 

William  of  Deloraine  some  chance 
Had  wakened  from  his  deathlike  trance, 

And  taught  that  in  the  listed  plain 
Another,  in  his  arms  and  shield, 
Against  fierce  Musgrave  axe  did  wield, 

Under  the  name  of  Deloraine. 
Hence,  to  the  field  unarmed  he  ran, 
And  hence  his  presence  scared  the  clan, 
Who  held  him  for  some  fleeting  wraith, 
And  not  a  man  of  blood  and  breath. 
Not  much  this  new  ally  he  loved, 
Yet,  when  he  saw  what  hap  had  proved, 

He  greeted  him" right  heartilie  : 
He  would  not  waken  old  debate, 


For  he  was  void  of  rancorous  hate. 

Though  rude  and  scant  of  courtesy  ; 
In  raids  he  spilt  but  seldom  blood, 
Unless  when  men-at-arms  withstood, 
Or,  as  was  meet,  for  deadly  feud. 
He  ne'er  bore  grudge  for  stalwart  blow, 
Ta'en  in  fair  fight  from  gallant  foe. 
And  so  't  was  seen  of  him  e'en  now, 

When  on  dead  Musgrave  he  looked  down 
Grief  darkened  on  his  rugged  brow, 

Though  half  disguised  with  a  frown  : 
And  thus,  while  sorrow  bent  his  head, 
His  foeman's  epitaph  he  made  : 

XXIX. 

1  Now,  Richard  Musgrave,  liest  thou  here, 

I  ween,  my  deadly  enemy  : 
For,  if  I  slew  thy  brother  dear, 

Thou  slew'st  a  sister's  son  to  me  ; 
And  when  I  lay  in  dungeon  dark 

Of  Naworth  Castle  long  months  three, 
Till  ransomed  for  a  thousand  mark, 

Dark  Musgrave,  it  was  long  of  thee. 
And,  Musgrave,  could  our  fight  be  tried, 

And  thou  wert  now  alive,  as  I, 
No  mortal  man  should  us  divide, 

Till  one,  or  both  of  us,  did  die  : 
Yet  rest  thee  God  !  for  well  I  know 
I  ne'er  shall  find  a  nobler  foe. 
In  all  the  northern  counties  here, 
Whose  word  is  Snaffle,  spur,  and  spear. 


THE  LA  Y  OF   THE  LAST  MINSTREL. 


47 


Thou  wert  the  best  to  follow  gear. 
T  was  pleasure,  as  we  looked  behind, 
To  see  how  thou  the  chase  couldst  wind, 
Cheer  the  dark  bloodhound  on  his  way, 
And  with  the  bugle  rouse  the  fray  ! 
I  'd  give  the  lands  of  Deloraine, 
Dark  Musgrave  were  alive  again.' 

XXX. 

So  mourned  he  till  Lord  Dacre's  band 
Were  bowning  back  to  Cumberland. 
They  raised  brave  Musgrave  from  the  field 
And  laid  him  on  his  bloody  shield  ; 


The  harp's  wild  notes,  though  hushed  the 

song, 
The  mimic  march  of  death  prolong ; 
Now  seems  it  far,  and  now  a-near, 
Now  meets,  and  now  eludes  the  ear, 
Now  seems  some  mountain  side  to  sweep, 
Now  faintly  dies  in  valley  deep, 
Seems  now  as  if  the  Minstrel's  wail, 
Now  the  sad  requiem,  loads  the  gale  ; 
Last,  o'er  the  warrior's  closing  grave, 
Rung  the  full  choir  in  choral  stave. 

After  due  pause,  they  bade  him  tell 
Why  he,  who  touched  the  harp  so  well, 


On  levelled  lances,  four  and  four, 

By  turns,  the  noble  burden  bore. 

Before,  at  times,  upon  the  gale 

Was     heard     the     Minstrel's     plaintive 

wail ; 
Behind,  four  priests  in  sable  stole 
Sung  requiem  for  the  warrior's  soul ; 
Around,  the  horsemen  slowly  rode  ; 
With  trailing  pikes  the  spearmen  trode  ; 
And  thus  the  gallant  knight  they  bore 
Through  Liddesdale  to  Leven's  shore, 
Thence  to  Holme  Coltrame's  lofty  nave, 
And  laid  him  in  his  father's  grave. 


Should  thus,  with  ill-rewarded  toil, 
Wander  a  poor  and  thankless  soil, 
When  the  more  generous  Southern  Land 
Would  well  requite  his  skilful  hand. 

The  aged  harper,  howsoe'er 

His  only  friend,  his  harp,  was  dear, 

Liked  not  to  hear  it  ranked  so  high 

Above  his  flowing  poesy  : 

Less  liked  he  still  that  scornful  jeer 

Misprized  the  land  he  loved  so  dear ; 

High  was  the  sound  as  thus  again 

The  bard  resumed  his  minstrel  strain. 


48 


scorrs  poetical  works. 


Wqi  Hag  of  tije  Hast  flmgtrel. 

CANTO   SIXTH. 


Breathes  there  the  man,  with  soul  so  dead, 
Who  never  to  himself  hath  said, 

This  is  my  own,  my  native  land  ? 
Whose  heart  hath  ne'er  within  him  burned, 
As  home  his  footsteps  he  hath  turned 

From  wandering  on  a  foreign  strand  ? 
If  such  there  breathe,  go,  mark  him  well ; 
For  him  no  minstrel  raptures  swell ; 
High  though  his  titles,  proud  his  name, 
Boundless  his  wealth  as  wish  can  claim,  — 
Despite  those  titles,  power,  and  pelf, 
The  wretch,  concentred  all  in  self, 
Living,  shall  forfeit  fair  renown, 
And,  doubly  dying,  shall  go  down 
To  the  vile  dust  from  whence  he  sprung, 
Unwept,  unhonored,  and  unsung. 


O  Caledonia,  stern  and  wild. 

Meet  nurse  for  a  poetic  child  ! 

Land  of  brown  heath  and  shaggy  wood, 

Land  of  the  mountain  and  the  flood, 


Land  of  my  sires  !  what  mortal  hand 

Can  e'er  untie  the  filial  band 

That  knits  me  to  thy  rugged  strand  ! 

Still,  as  I  view  each  well-known  scene, 

Think  what  is  now  and  what  hath  been, 

Seems  as  to  me,  of  all  bereft, 

Sole  friends  thy  woods  and  streams  were 

left; 
And  thus  I  love  them  better  still, 
Even  in  extremity  of  ill. 
By  Yarrow's  stream  still  let  me  stray, 
Though  none  should  guide  my  feeble  way; 
Still  feel  the  breeze  down  Ettrick  break, 
Although  it  chill  my  withered  cheek ; 
Still  lay  my  head  by  Teviot-stone, 
Though  there,  forgotten  and  alone, 
The  bard  may  draw  his  parting  groan. 

in. 
Not  scorned  like  me,  to  Branksome  Hall 
The  minstrels  came  at  festive  call ; 
Trooping  they  came  from  near  and  far. 
The  jovial  priests  of  mirth  and  war ; 
Alike  for  feast  and  fight  prepared, 
Battle  and  banquet  both  they  shared. 
Of  late,  before  each  martial  clan 
They  blew  their  death-note  in  the  van, 
But  now  for  every  merry  mate 


THE  LA  V  OF   THE  LAST  MINSTREL. 


49 


Rose  the  portcullis'  iron  grate  ; 
They  sound  the  pipe,  they  strike  the  string, 
They  dance,  they  revel,  and  they  sing, 
Till  the  rude  turrets  shake  and  ring. 

IV. 

Me  lists  not  at  this  tide  declare 

The  splendor  of  the  spousal  rite, 
How  mustered  in  the  chapel  fair 

Both  maid  and  matron,  squire  and  knight ; 
Me  lists  not  tell  of  ovvches  rare, 
Of  mantles  green,  and  braided  hair, 
And  kirtles  furred  with  miniver ; 
What  plumage  waved  the  altar  round, 
How  spurs  and  ringing  chainlets  sound  : 
And  hard  it  were  for  bard  to  speak 
The  changeful  hue  of  Margaret's  cheek, 
That  lovely  hue  which  comes  and  flies, 
As  awe  and  shame  alternate  rise  ! 


Some  bards  have  sung,  the  Ladye  high 
Chapel  or  altar  came  not  nigh, 
Nor  durst  the  rites  of  spousal  grace, 
So  much  she  feared  each  holy  place. 
False  slanders  these  :  —  I  trust  right  well. 
She  wrought  not  by  forbidden  spell, 
For  mighty  words  and  signs  have  power 
O'er  sprites  in  planetary  hour ; 


Yet  scarce  I  praise  their  venturous  part 
Who  tamper  with  such  dangerous  art. 
But  this  for  faithful  truth  I  say,  — 

The  Ladye  by  the  altar  stood, 
Of  sable  velvet  her  array, 

And  on  her  head  a  crimson  hood, 
With  pearls  embroidered  and  entwined, 
Guarded  with  gold,  with  ermine  lined ; 
A  merlin  sat  upon  her  wrist, 
Held  by  a  leash  of  silken  twist. 


VI. 

The  spousal  rites  were  ended  soon ; 
'T  was  now  the  merry  hour  of  noon, 
And  in  the  lofty  arched  hall 
Was  spread  the  gorgeous  festival. 
Steward  and  squire,  with  heedful  haste. 
Marshalled  the  rank  of  every  guest : 
Pages,  with  ready  blade,  were  there, 
The  mighty  meal  to  carve  and  share  : 
O'er  capon,  heron-shew,  and  crane, 
And  princely  peacock's  gilded  train, 
And  o'er  the  boar-head,  garnished  brave. 
And  cygnet  from  Saint  Mary's  wave, 
O'er  ptarmigan  and  venison, 
The  priest  had  spoke  his  beaison. 
Then  rose  the  riot  and  the  din. 
*  Above,  beneath,  without,  within  ! 
For,  from  the  lofty  balcony, 


50 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL    WORKS. 


Rung  trumpet,  shalm,  and  psaltery  : 
Their  clanging  bowls  old  warriors  quaffed, 
Loudly  they  spoke  and  loudly  laughed ; 
Whispered  young  knights,  in  tone  more  mild, 
To  ladies  fair,  and  ladies  smiled. 
The  hooded  hawks,  high  perched  on  beam, 
The  clamor  joined  with  whistling  scream, 
And  flapped  their  wings  and  shook  their 

bells, 
In  concert  with  the  stag-hounds'  yells. 


By  nature  fierce,  and  warm  with  wine. 
And  now  in  humor  highly  crossed 
About  some  steeds  his  band  had  lost, 
High  words  to  words  succeeding  still, 
Smote  with  his  gauntlet  stout  Hunthill, 
A  hot  and  hardy  Rutherford, 
Whom  men  called  Dickon  Draw-the-Sword. 
He  took  it  on  the  page's  saye, 
Hunthill  had  driven  these  steeds  away. 
Then  Howard,  Home,  and  Douglas  roser 


Round  go  the  flasks  of  ruddy  wine, 
From  Bordeaux,  Orleans,  or  the  Rhine 
Their  tasks  the  busy  sewers  ply, 
And  all  is  mirth  and  revelry. 


VII. 


The  Goblin  Page,  omitting  still 

No  opportunity  of  ill, 

Strove  now,  while  blood  ran  hot  and  high, 

To  rouse  debate  and  jealousy; 

Till  Conrad,  Lord  of  Wolfenstein, 


The  kindling  discord  to  compose ; 

Stern  Rutherford  right  little  said, 

But  bit  his  glove  and  shook  his  head. 

A  fortnight  thence,  in  Inglewood, 

Stout  Conrad,  cold,  and  drenched  in  blood, 

His  bosom  gored  with  many  a  wound, 

Was  by  a  woodman's  lyme-dog  found : 

Unknown  the  manner  of  his  death, 

Gone  was  his  brand,  both  sword  and  sheath ; 

But  ever  from  that  time,  't  was  said, 

That  Dickon  wore  a  Cologne  blade. 


THE  LA  Y  OF  THE  LAST  MINSTREL. 


51 


VIII. 

The  dwarf,  who  feared  his  master's  eye 
Might  his  foul  treachery  espie, 

;Now  sought  the  castle  buttery, 
Where  many  a  yeoman,  bold  and  free, 
Revelled  as  merrily  and  well 
As  those  that  sat  in  lordly  selle. 
Watt  Tinlinn  there  did  frankly  raise 
The  pledge  to  Arthur  Fire-the-Braes ; 
And  he,  as  by  his  breeding  bound, 
To  Howard's  merrymen  sent  it  round. 
To  quit  them,  on  the  English  side, 
Red  Roland  Forster  loudly  cried, 
'  A  deep  carouse  to  yon 

fair  bride  ! ' 
At  every  pledge,  from  vat 

and  pail, 
Foamed  forth  in  floods  the 

nut-brown  ale, 
While    shout   the    riders 

every  one  : 
Such  day  of  mirth  ne'er 

cheered  their  clan, 
Since  old  Buccleuch  the 

name  did  gain, 
When  in  the  cleuch  the 

buck  was  ta'en. 

IX. 

The  wily  page, withvenge- 

ful  thought, 
Remembered    him    of 

Tinlinn's  yew, 
And  swore  it  should  be 

dearly  bought 
That  ever  he  the  arrow 

drew. 
First,  he  the  yeoman  did 

molest 

With  bitter  gibe  and  taunting  jest ; 
Told  how  he  fled  at  Solway  strife, 
And  how  Hob  Armstrong  cheered  his  wife  ; 
Then,  shunning  still  his  powerful  arm, 
At  unawares  he  wrought  him  harm  ; 
'From  trencher  stole  his  choicest  cheer, 
Dashed  from  his  lips  his  can  of  beer ; 
Then,  to  his  knee  sly  creeping  on, 
With  bodkin  pierced  him  to  the  bone : 
The  venomed  wound  and  festering  joint 
Long  after  rued  that  bodkin's  point. 
The  startled  yeoman  swore  and  spurned, 
And  board  and  flagons  overturned. 
Riot  and  clamor  wild  began ; 
Back  to  the  hall  the  urchin  ran, 
Took  in  a  darkling  nook  his  post, 
And  grinned,  and  muttered,   '  Lost !   lost ! 

lost ! ' 

x. 
By  this,  the  dame,  lest  farther  fray 
Should  mar  the  concord  of  the  day, 


Had  bid  the  minstrels  tune  their  lay. 
And  first  stepped  forth  old  Albert  Graeme, 
The  minstrel  of  that  ancient  name : 
Was    none    who     struck     the     harp    so 

well 
Within  the  Land  Debatable  ; 
Well  friended  too,  his  hardy  kin, 
Whoever  lost,  were  sure  to  win ; 
They  sought  the  beeves  that  made  their 

broth 
In  Scotland  and  in  England  both. 
In  homely  guise,  as  nature  bade, 
His  simple  song  the  Borderer  said. 


XI. 

ALBERT   GR^ME. 

It  was  an  English  ladye  bright, 
(The  sun  shines  fair  on  Carlisle  wall) 

And  she  would  marry  a  Scottish  knight, 
For  Love  will  still  be  lord  of  all. 

Blithely  they  saw  the  rising  sun, 
When  he  shone  fair  on  Carlisle  wall ; 

But  they  were  sad  ere  day  was  done, 
Though  Love  was  still  the  lord  of  all. 

Her  sire  gave  brooch  and  jewel  fine, 
Where  the  sun  shines  fair  on  Carlisle  wall ; 

Her  brother  gave  but  a  flask  of  wine, 
For  ire  that  Love  was  lord  of  all. 

For  she  had  lands  both  meadow  and  lea, 
Where  the  sun  shines  fair  on  Carlisle 
wall ; 


52 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL    WORKS. 


And  he  swore  her  death,  ere  he  would  see 
A  Scottish  knight  the  lord  of  all ! 

XII. 

That  wine  she  had  not  tasted  well, 
(The  sun  shines  fair  on  Carlisle  wall) 

When  dead,  in  her  true  love's  arms,  she  fell, 
For  Love  was  still  the  lord  of  all. 

He  pierced  her  brother  to  the  heart, 
Where  the  sun   shines   fair  on  Carlisle 
wall ;  — 

So  perish  all  would  true  love  part, 
That  Love  may  still  be  lord  of  all ! 

And  then  he  took  the  cross  divine, 

Where  the  sun   shines  fair  on  Carlisle 
wall, 

And  died  for  her  sake  in  Palestine, 
So  Love  was  still  the  lord  of  all. 

Now  all  ye  lovers,  that  faithful  prove, 
(The  sun  shines  fair  on  Carlisle  wall) 

Pray  for  their  souls  who  died  for  love, 
For  Love  shall  still  be  lord  of  all ! 

XIII. 

As  ended  Albert's  simple  lay, 

Arose  a  bard  of  loftier  port, 
For  sonnet,  rhyme,  and  roundelay 

Renowned  in  haughty  Henry's  court: 
There  rung  thy  harp,  unrivalled  long, 
Fitztraver  of  the  silver  song ! 
The  gentle  Surrey  loved  his  lyre  — 

Who  has  not  heard  of  Surrey's  fame  ? 
His  was  the  hero's  soul  of  fire, 

And  his  the  bard's  immortal  name, 


And  his  was  love,  exalted  high 
By  all  the  glow  of  chivalry. 


XIV. 

They  sought  together  climes  afar. 

And  oft,  within  some  olive  grove. 
When  even  came  with  twinkling  star. 

They  sung  of  Surrey's  absent  love. 
His  step  the  Italian  peasant  stayed, 

And  deemed  that  spirits  from  on  high. 
Round  where  some  hermit  saint  was  laid. 

Were  breathing  heavenly  melody  : 
So  sweet  did  harp  and  voice  combine 
To  praise  the  name  of  Geraldine. 

XV. 

Fitztraver,  O,  what  tongue  may  say 
The  pangs  thy  faithful  bosom  knew. 

When  Surrey  of  the  deathless  lay 
Ungrateful  Tudor's  sentence  slew  ? 

Regardless  of  the  tyrant's  frown, 

His  harp  called  wrath  and  vengeance  down. 

He  left,  for  Naworth's  iron  towers, 

Windsor's  green  glades  and  courtly  bowers. 

And,  faithful  to  his  patron's  name, 

With  Howard  still  Fitztraver  came  ; 

Lord  William's  foremost  favorite  he. 

And  chief  of  all  his  minstrelsy. 

XVI. 
FITZTRAVER. 

'T  was  All-souls'  eve,  and  Surrey's  heart 
beat  high ; 
He  heard  the  midnight  bell  with  anx- 
ious start, 


THE  LA  Y  OF  THE   LAST  MINSTREL. 


53 


Which  told  the  mystic  hour,  approaching 
nigh, 
When  wise  Cornelius  promised  by  his 

art 
To  show  to  him  the  ladye  of  his  heart, 
Albeit  betwixt   them   roared  the   ocean 
grim; 
Yet  so  the  sage  had  hight  to  play  his 
part, 
That  he  should  see  her  form  in  life  and 
limb, 
And  mark  if  still  she  loved  and  still  she 
thought  of  him. 

XVII. 

Dark  was  the  vaulted  room  of  gramarye, 

To  which  the  wizard  led  the  gallant 

knight. 

Save  that  before  a  mirror,  huge  and  high, 

A  hallowed  taper   shed  a  glimmering 

light 
On  mystic  implements  of  magic  might, 
On  cross,  and  character,  and  talisman, 

And  almagest,  and  altar,  nothing  bright ; 
For  fitful  was  the  lustre,  pale  and  wan, 
As  watch-light  by  the  bed  of  some  departing 
man. 

XVIII. 

But  soon,  within  that  mirror  huge  and 
high, 
Was  seen  a  self-emitted  light  to  gleam  : 
And  forms  upon  its  breast  the  earl  gan 

spy> 


Cloudy  and  indistinct  as  feverish  dream : 
Till,  slow  arranging  and  defined,  they 
seem 
To  form  a  lordly  and  a  lofty  room, 

Part  lighted  by  a  lamp  with  silver  beam, 
Placed  by  a  couch  of  Agra's  silken  loom, 
And  part  by  moonshine  pale,  and  part  was 
hid  in  gloom. 

XIX. 

Fair  all  the  pageant  —  but  how  passing 
fair 
The  slender  form  which  lay  on  couch 
of  Ind ! 
O'er  her  white  bosom  strayed  her  hazel 
hair, 
Pale  her  dear  cheek,  as  if  for  love  she 

pined  ; 
All   in   her   night-robe   loose   she   lay 
reclined, 
And  pensive  read  from  tablet  eburnine 
Some   strain  that  seemed  her  inmost 
soul  to  find  : 
That  favored  strain  was  Surrey's  raptured 
line, 
That  fair  and  lovely  form  the  Lady  Geraldine. 

xx. 

Slow  rolled  the  clouds  upon  the  lovely 
form, 

And  swept  the  goodly  vision  all  away  — 
So  royal  envy  rolled  the  murky  storm 

O'er  my  beloved  Master's  glorious  day. 


54 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL    WORKS. 


Thou  yealous,  ruthless  tyrant!  Heaven 

repay 

On  thee,  and  on  thy  children's  latest  line, 

The  wild  caprice  of  thy  despotic  sway, 

The  gory  bridal  bed,  the  plundered  shrine, 

The  murdered  Surrey's  blood,  the  tears  of 

Geraldine ! 

XXI. 

Both  Scots  and  Southern  chiefs  prolong 
Applauses  of  Fitztraver's  song; 
These  hated  Henry's  name  as  death, 
And  those  still  held  the  ancient  faith. 
Then  from  his  seat  with  lofty  air 


The  Norsemen,  trained  to  spoil  and  blood. 
Skilled  to  prepare  the  raven's  food, 
Kings  of  the  main  their  leaders  brave. 
Their  barks  the  dragons  of  the  wave  ; 
And  there,  in  many  a  stormy  vale. 
The  Scald  had  told  his  wondrous  tale. 
And  many  a  Runic  column  high 
Had  witnessed  grim  idolatry. 
And  thus  had  Harold  in  his  youth 
Learned  many  a  Saga's  rhyme  uncouth,  — 
Of  that  Sea-Snake,  tremendous  curled, 
Whose  monstrous  circle  girds  the  world  ; 
Of  those  dread  Maids  whose  hideous  yell 
Maddens  the  battle's  bloody  swell  ; 


Rose  Harold,  bard  of  brave  Saint  Clair,  — 
Saint  Clair,  who,  feasting  high  at  Home, 
Had  with  that  lord  to  battle  come. 
Harold  was  born  where  restless  seas 
Howl  round  the  storm-swept  Orcades ; 
Where  erst  Saint  Clairs  held  princely  sway 
O'er  isle  and  islet,  strait  and  bay  ;  — 
Still  nods  their  palace  to  its  fall, 
Thy  pride  and  sorrow,  fair  Kirkwall !  — 
Thence    oft    he    marked    fierce    Pentland 

rave, 
As  if  grim  Odin  rode  her  wave, 
And  watched  the  whilst,  with  visage  pale 
And  throbbing  heart,  the  struggling  sail ; 
For  all  of  wonderful  and  wild 
Had  rapture  for  the  lonely  child. 

XXII. 

And  much  of  wild  and  wonderful 
In  these  rude  isles  might  Fancy  cull ; 
For  thither  came  in  times  afar 
Stern  Lochlin's  sons  of  roving  war, 


Of  chiefs  who,  guided  through  the  gloom 
By  the  pale  death-lights  of  the  tomb, 
Ransacked  the  graves  of  warriors  old, 
Their    falchions   wrenched    from    corpses' 

hold, 
Waked  the  deaf  tomb  with  war's  alarms, 
And  bade  the  dead  arise  to  arms  ! 
With  war  and  wonder  all  on  flame, 
To  Roslin's  bowers  young  Harold  came, 
Where,    by    sweet    glen    and    greenwood 

tree, 
He  learned  a  milder  minstrelsy  ; 
Yet  something  of  the  Northern  spell  ' 
Mixed  with  the  softer  numbers  well. 


XXIII. 
HAROLD. 

O,  listen,  listen,  ladies  gay  ! 

No  haughty  feat  of  arms  I  tell ; 
Soft  is  the  note,  and  sad  the  lay, 

That  mourns  the  lovely  Rosabelle. 


THE  LAY  OF   THE  LAST  MINSTREL. 


55 


'  Moor,  moor  the  barge,  ye  gallant  crew! 

And,  gentle  ladye,  deign  to  stay  ! 
Rest  thee  in  Castle  Ravensheuch, 

Nor  tempt  the  stormy  firth  to-day. 

'  The  blackening  wave  is  edged  with  white; 

To  inch  and  rock  the  sea-mews  fly ; 
The  fishers  have  heard  the  Water  Sprite, 

Whose  screams  forebode  that  wreck  is 
nigh. 

1  Last  night  the  gifted  Seer  did  view 
A  wet  shroud  swathed  round  ladye  gay ; 

Then  stay  thee,  fair,  in  Ravensheuch  : 
Why  cross  the  gloomy  firth  to-day  ? ' 

•  'T  is  not  because  Lord  Lindesay's  heir 

To-night  at  Roslin  leads  the  ball, 
But  that  my  ladye-mother  there 
Sits  lonely  in  her  castle-hall. 

*  'T  is  not  because  the  ring  they  ride, 

And  Lindesay  at  the  ring  rides  well, 
But  that  my  sire  the  wine  will  chide, 
•If  'tis  not  filled  by  Rosabelle.' 

O'er  Roslin  all  that  dreary  night 

A  wondrous  blaze  was  seen  to  gleam  ; 

'T  was  broader  than  the  watch-fire  light, 
And  redder  than  the  bright  moonbeam. 


It  glared  on  Roslin's  castled  rock, 
It  ruddied  all  the  copsewood  glen ; 

'T  was  seen  from  Dreyden's  groves  of  oak, 
And  seen  from  caverned  Hawthornden. 

Seemed  all  on  fire  that  chapel  proud 
Where  Roslin's  chiefs  uncoffined  lie, 

Each  baron,  for  a  sable  shroud, 
Sheathed  in  his  iron  panoply. 

Seemed  all  on  fire  within,  around, 
Deep  sacristy  and  altar's  pale ; 

Shone  every  pillar  foliage-bound, 
And  glimmered  all  the  dead  men's  mail. 

Blazed  battlement  and  pinnet  high, 

Blazed  every  rose-carved  buttress  fair  — 

So  still  they  blaze  when  fate  is  nigh 
The  lordly  line  of  high  Saint  Clair. 

There  are  twenty  of  Roslin's  barons  bold 
Lie  buried  within  that  proud  chapelle  ; 

Each  one  the  holy  vault  doth  hold  — 
But  the  sea  holds  lovely  Rosabelle  ! 

And  each  Saint  Clair  was  buried  there, 
With  candle,  with  book,  and  with  knell ; 

But  the  sea-caves  rung  and  the  wild  winds 
sung 
The  dirge  of  lovely  Rosabelle. 


56 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL   WORKS. 


t 


XXIV. 

So  sweet  was  Harold's  piteous  lay, 

Scarce  marked  the  guests'  the  darkened 
hall, 
Though,  long  before  the  sinking  day, 

A  wondrous  shade  involved  them  all. 
It  was  not  eddying  mist  or  fog, 
Drained  by  the  sun  from  fen  or  bog ; 

Of  no  eclipse  had  sages  told  ; 
And  yet,  as  it  came  on  apace, 
Each  one  could  scarce  his  neighbor's  face, 

Could   scarce   his   own   stretched    hand 
behold. 
A  secret  horror  checked  the  feast, 
And  chilled  the  soul  of  every  guest ; 
Even  the  high  dame  stood  half  aghast, 
She  knew  some  evil  on  the  blast ; 
The  elfish  page  fell  to  the  ground, 
And,  shuddering,  muttered, '  Found  !  found ! 
found ! ' 

XXV. 

Then  sudden  through  the  darkened  air 

A  flash  of  lightning  came  ; 
So  broad,  so  bright,  so  red  the  glare, 

The  castle  seemed  on  flame. 
Glanced  every  rafter  of  the  hall, 
Glanced  every  shield  upon  the  wall ; 
Each  trophiedbeam,  each  sculptured  stone, 
Were  instant  seen  and  instant  gone  ; 
Full  through  the  guests'  bedazzled  band 


Resistless  flashed  the  levin-brand, 

And  filled  the  hall  with  smouldering  smoke, 

As  on  the  elfish  page  it  broke. 

It  broke  with  thunder  long  and  loud, 

Dismayed  the  brave,  appalled  the  proud,  — 

From  sea  to  sea  the  larum  rung; 
On  Berwick  wall,  and  at  Carlisle  withal, 

To  arms  the  startled  warders  sprung. 
When  ended  was  the  dreadful  roar, 
The  elfish  dwarf  was  seen  no  more  ! 


wvi. 
Some  heard  a  voice  in  Branksome  Hall, 
Some  saw  a  sight,  not  seen  by  all  : 
That  dreadful  voice  was  heard  by  some 
Cry,  with  loud  summons,  4  ( '.vi .wis.  I  OME  ! 

And  on  the  spot  where  burst  the  brand, 
Just  where  the  page  had  flung  him  down. 

Some  saw  an  arm,  and  some  a  hand, 
And  some  the  waving  <>l  a  gown. 
The  guests  in  silence  prayed  and  shook, 
And  terror  dimmed  each  lofty  look. 
But  none  of  all  the  astonished  train 
Was  so  dismayed  as  Deloraine  : 
His  blood  did  freeze,  his  brain  did  burn, 
'T  was    feared   his    mind    would    ne'er 

turn  ; 
For  he  was  speechless,  ghastly,  wan, 
Like  him  of  whom  the  story  ran, 
Who  spoke  the  spectre-hound  in  Man. 
At  length  by  fits  he  darkly  told, 


re 


THE  LA  Y  OF  THE  LAST  MINSTREL. 


57 


With  broken  hint  and  shuddering  cold, 

That  he  had  seen  right  certainly 
A  shape  with  amice  wrapped  around, 
With  a  wrought  Spanish  baldric  bound, 

Like  pilgrim  from  beyond  the  sea; 
And  knew  —  but  how  it  mattered  not  — 
It  was  the  wizard,  Michael  Scott. 

XXVII. 

The  anxious  crowd,  with  horror  pale, 
All  trembling  heard  the  wondrous  tale  : 


And  monks  should  sing  and  bells  should 

toll, 
All  for  the  weal  of  Michael's  soul. 
While  vows  were  ta'en  and  prayers  were 

prayed, 
'T  is  said  the  noble  dame,  dismayed, 
Renounced  for  aye  dark  magic's  aid. 

XXVIII. 

Nought  of  the  bridal  will  I  tell, 
Which  after  in  short  space  befell ; 


No  sound  was  made,  no  word  was  spoke, 
Till  noble  Angus  silence  broke ; 

And  he  a  solemn  sacred  plight 
Did  to  Saint  Bride  of  Douglas  make, 
That  be  a  pilgrimage  would  take 
To  Melrose  Abbey,  for  the  sake 

Of  Michael's  restless  sprite. 
Then  each,  to  ease  his  troubled  breast, 
To  some  blest  saint  his  prayers  addressed 
Some  to  Saint  Modan  made  their  vows, 
Some  to  Saint  Mary  of  the  Lowes, 
Some  to  the  Holy  Rood  of  Lisle, 
Some  to  Our  Lady  of  the  Isle ; 
Kach  did  his  patron  witness  make 
That  he  such  pilgrimage  would  take, 


Nor  how  brave  sons  and  daughters  fair 
Blessed  Teviot's  Flower  and  Cranstoun's 

heir: 
After  such  dreadful  scene  't  were  vain 
To  wake  the  note  of  mirth  again. 
More  meet  it  were  to  mark  the  day 

Of  penitence  and  prayer  divine, 
When  pilgrim-chiefs,  in  sad  array, 

Sought  Melrose'  holy  shrine. 

XXIX. 

With  naked  foot,  and  sackcloth  vest, 
And  arms  enfolded  on  his  breast, 
Did  every  pilgrim  go  ; 


58 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL   WORK'S. 


The  standers-by  might  hear  uneath 
Footstep,  or  voice,  or  high-drawn  breath, 

Through  all  the  lengthened  row  : 
No  lordly  look  nor  martial  stride, 
Gone  was  their  glory,  sunk  their  pride, 

Forgotten  their  renown ; 
Silent  and  slow,  like  ghosts,  they  glide 
To  the  high  altar's  hallowed  side, 

And  there  they  knelt  them  down. 
Above  the  suppliant  chieftains  wave 
The  banners  of  departed  brave  ; 
Beneath  the  lettered  stones  were  laid 
The  ashes  of  their  fathers  dead  : 


From  many  a  garnished  niche  around 
Stern  saints  and  tortured  martyrs  frowned. 

XXX. 

And  slow  up  the  dim  aisle  afar, 
With  sable  cowl  and  scapular, 
And  snow-white  stoles,  in  order  due, 
The  holy  fathers,  two  and  two, 

In  long  procession  came ; 
Taper  and  host  and  book  they  bare, 
And  holy  banner,  flourished  fair 

With  the  Redeemer's  name. 
Above  the  prostrate  pilgrim  band 
The  mitred  abbot  stretched  his  hand, 

And  blessed  them  as  they  kneeled; 
With  holy  cross  he  signed  them  all, 
And  prayed  they  might  be  sage  in  hall 

And  fortunate  in  field. 
Then  mass  was  sung,  and  prayers  were  said, 
And  solemn  requiem  for  the  dead ; 
And  bells  tolled  out  their  mighty  peal 
For  the  departed  spirit's  weal ; 
And  ever  in  the  office  close 
The  hymn  of  intercession  rose : 


And  far  the  echoing  aisles  prolong 
The  awful  burden  of  the  song, 
Dies  ir.e,  dies  illa, 

SOLVET  SMCIAJM   IN  F.wil.LA, 
While  the  pealing  organ  rung. 
Were  it  meet  with  sacred  strain 
To  close  my  lay,  so  light  and  vain. 
Thus  the  holy  fathers  sung : 


P?pmn   for  trjc   Drag. 

That  day  of  wrath,  that  dreadful  day. 
When  heaven  and  earth  shall  pass  away, 
What  power  shall  be  the  sinners  stay  ? 
How  shall  he  meet  that  dreadful  day  ? 

When,  shrivelling  like  a  parched  scroll, 
The  flaming  heavens  together  roll, 
When  louder  yet,  and  yet  more  dread. 
Swells  the  high   trump   that   wakes   the 
dead ! 

O,  on  that  day,  that  wrathful  day, 
When  man  to  judgment  wakes  from  clay, 
Be  Thou  the  trembling  sinner's  stay, 
Though    heaven    and    earth    shall   pass 
away ! 


Hi  shed  is  the  harp  —  the  Minstrel  gone. 

And  did  he  wander  forth  alone  ? 

Alone,  in  indigence  and  age, 

To  linger  out  his  pilgrimage  ? 

No  :  close  beneath  proud  Newark's  tower 

Arose  the  Minstrel's  lowly  bower, 

A  simple  hut ;  but  there  was  seen 

The  little  garden  hedged  with  green. 

The  cheerful  hearth,  and  lattice  clean. 

There  sheltered  wanderers,  by  the  blaze, 

Oft  heard  the  tale  of  other  days  ; 

For  much  he  loved  to  ope  his  door, 

And  give  the  aid  he  begged  before. 

So  passed  the  winter's  day  ;  but  still, 

When  summer  smiled  on  sweet  Bowhill. 

And  July's  eve,  with  balmy  breath, 

Waved  the  blue-bells  on  Newark  heath, 

When  throstles  sung  in  Harehead-shaw, 

And  corn  was  green  on  Carterhaugh, 

And  flourished,  broad,  Blackandro's  oak, 

The  aged  harper's  soul  awoke  ! 

Then  would  he  sing  achievements  high 

And  circumstance  of  chivalry, 

Till  the  rapt  traveller  would  stay, 

Forgetful  of  the  closing  day  ; 

And  noble  youths,  the  strain  to  hear, 

Forsook  the  hunting  of  the  deer ; 

And  Yarrow,  as  he  rolled  along, 

Bore  burden  to  the  Minstrel's  sons:. 


armton: 


A    TALE    OF    FLODDEN    FIELD. 


Alas !  that  Scottish  maid  should  sing 

The  combat  where  her  lover  fell ! 
That  Scottish  Bard  should  wake  the  string, 

The  triumph  of  our  foes  to  tell ! 

Leyden's  Ode  on  Visiting  Flodden. 


TO    THE 

RIGHT    HONORABLE    HENRY,    LORD    MONTAGUE, 
&c,  &c,  &c, 

THIS   ROMANCE   IS   INSCRIBED  BY 
THE  AUTHOR. 


INTRODUCTION   TO   CANTO   FIRST. 
To  WILLIAM   STEWART   ROSE,  ESQ. 

Ashestiel,  Ettrick  Forest. 

November's  sky  is  chill  and  drear, 
November's  leaf  is  red  and  sear  : 
Late,  gazing  down  the  steepy  linn 
That  hems  our  little  garden  in, 
Low  in  its  dark  and  narrow  glen, 
You  scarce  the  rivulet  might  ken, 
So  thick  the  tangled  greenwood  grew, 
So  feeble  trilled  the  streamlet  through ; 
Now,  murmuring  hoarse,  and  frequent  seen 
Through  bush  and  brier,  no  longer  green, 
An  angry  brook,  it  sweeps  the  glade, 
Brawls  over  rock  and  wild  cascade, 
And,  foaming  brown  with  double  speed, 
Hurries  its  waters  to  the  Tweed. 


No  longer  autumn's  glowing  red 
Upon  our  Forest  hills  is  shed  ; 
No  more,  beneath  the  evening  beam, 
Fair  Tweed  reflects  their  purple  gleam. 
Away  hath  passed  the  heather-bell 
That  bloomed  so  rich  on  Needpath-fell : 
Sallow  his  brow,  and  russet  bare 
Are  now  the  sister-heights  of  Yair. 
The  sheep,  before  the  pinching  heaven, 
To  sheltered  dale  and  down  are  driven, 
Where  yet  some  faded  herbage  pines, 
And  yet  a  watery  sunbeam  shines  ; 
In  meek  despondency  they  eye 
The  withered  sward  and  wintry  sky, 
And  far  beneath  their  summer  hill 
Stray  sadly  by  Glenkinnon's  rill. 
The  shepherd  shifts  his  mantle's  fold, 
And  wraps  him  closer  from  the  cold  : 
His  dogs  no  merry  circles  wheel, 
But  shivering  follow  at  his  heel ; 
A  cowering  glance  they  often  cast, 
As  deeper  moans  the  gathering  blast. 

My  imps,  though  hardy,  bold,  and  wild, 
As  best  befits  the  mountain  child, 
Feel  the  sad  influence  of  the  hour, 
And  wail  the  daisy's  vanished  flower, 
Their  summer  gambols  tell,  and  mourn, 
And  anxious  ask,  —  Will  spring  return, 
And  birds  and  lambs  again  be  gay, 
And  blossoms  clothe  the  hawthorn  spray  ? 


62 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL    WORKS. 


Yes,  prattlers,  yes.     The  daisy's  flower 
Again  shall  paint  your  summer  bower  : 
Again  the  hawthorn  shall  supply 
The  garlands  you  delight  to  tie  ; 
The  lambs  upon  the  lea  shall  bound, 
The  wild  birds  carol  to  the  round ; 
And  while  you  frolic  light  as  they, 
Too  short  shall  seem  the  summer  day. 

To  mute  and  to  material  things 
New  life  revolving  summer  brings  ; 
The  genial  call  dead  Nature  hears, 
And  in  her  glory  reappears. 
But  oh  !  my  country's  wintry  state 
What  second  spring  shall  renovate  ? 
What  powerful  call  shall  bid  arise 
The  buried  warlike  and  the  wise, 
The  mind  that  thought  for  Britain's  weal, 
The  hand  that  grasped  the  victor  steel  ? 
The  vernal  sun  new  life  bestows 
Even  on  the  meanest  flower  that  blows  ; 
But  vainly,  vainly  may  he  shine 
Where  Glory  weeps  o'er  Nelson's  shrine, 
And  vainly  pierce  the  solemn  gloom 
That  shrouds,  O  Pitt,  thy  hallowed  tomb ! 

Deep  graved  in  every  British  heart, 
Oh,  never  let  those  names  depart ! 
Say  to  your  sons,  —  Lo,  here  his  grave 
Who  victor  died  on  Gadite  wave ! 
To  him,  as  to  the  burning  levin, 
Short,  bright,  resistless  course  was  given  ; 
Where'er  his  country's  foes  were  found, 
Was  heard  the  fated  thunder's  sound, 
Till  burst  the  bolt  on  yonder  shore, 
Rolled,   blazed,   destroyed,  —  and   was   no 
more. 

Nor  mourn  ye  less  his  perished  worth 
Who  bade  the  conqueror  go  forth, 
And  launched  that  thunderbolt  of  war 
On  Egypt,  Hafnia,  Trafalgar; 
Who,  born  to  guide  such  high  emprise, 
For  Britain's  weal  was  early  wise  ; 
Alas  !  to  whom  the  Almighty  gave, 
For  Britain's  sins,  an  early  grave  ! 
His  worth  who,  in  his  mightiest  hour, 
A  bauble  held  the  pride  of  power, 
Spurned  at  the  sordid  lust  of  pelf, 
And  served  his  Albion  for  herself  ; 
Who,  when  the  frantic  crowd  amain 
Strained  at  subjection's  bursting  rein, 
O'er  their  wild  mood  full  conquest  gained, 
The  pride,  he  would  not  crush,  restrained, 
Showed  their  fierce  zeal  a  worthier  cause, 
And  brought  the  freeman's  arm  to  aid  the 
freeman's  laws. 

Hadst  thou  but  lived,  though  stripped  of 
power, 
A  watchman  on  the  lonely  tower, 
Thy  thrilling  trump  had  roused  the  land, 


When  fraud  or  danger  were  at  hand ; 
By  thee,  as  by  the  beacon-light, 
Our  pilots  had  kept  course  aright ; 
As  some  proud  column,  though  alone, 
Thy   strength   had   propped   the    tottering 

throne. 
Now  is  the  stately  column  broke, 
The  beacon-light  is  quenched  in  smoke. 
The  trumpet's  silver  sound  is  still, 
The  warder  silent  on  the  hill ! 

Oh,  think,  how  to  his  latest  day. 
When  Death,  just  hovering,  claimed  his  prey. 
With  Palinure's  unaltered  mood, 
Firm  at  his  dangerous  post  he  stood, 
Each  call  for  needful  rest  repelled, 
With  dying  hand  the  rudder  held, 
Till,  in  his  fall,  with  fateful  sway, 
The  steerage  of  the  realm  gave  way  ! 
Then,  while  on  Britain's  thousand  plains 
One  unpolluted  church  remains, 
Whose  peaceful  bells  ne'er  sent  around 
The  bloody  tocsin's  maddening  sound, 
But  still,  upon  the  hallowed  day, 
Convoke  the  swains  to  praise  and  pray  ; 
While  faith  and  civil  peace  are  dear, 
Grace  this  cold  marble  with  a  tear, 
He  who  preserved  them,  Pitt,  lies  here. 

Nor  yet  suppress  the  generous  sigh 
Because  his  rival  slumbers  nigh, 
Nor  be  thy  requiescat  dumb 
Lest  it  be  said  o'er  Fox's  tomb ; 
For  talents  mourn,  untimely  lost, 
When  best  employed  and  wanted  most ; 
Mourn  genius  high,  and  lore  profound, 
And  wit  that  loved  to  play,  not  wound  ; 
And  all  the  reasoning  powers  divine, 
To  penetrate,  resolve,  combine  ; 
And  feelings  keen,  and  fancy's  glow, 
They  sleep  with  him  who  sleeps  below  : 
And,  if  thou  mourn'st  they  could  not  save 
From  error  him  who  owns  this  grave, 
Be  every  harsher  thought  suppressed, 
And  sacred  be  the  last  long  rest. 
Here,  where  the  end  of  earthly  things 
Lays  heroes,  patriots,  bards,  and  kings  ; 
Where  stiff  the  hand,  and  still  the  tongue, 
Of  those  who  fought,  and  spoke,  and  sung ; 
Here,  where  the  fretted  aisles  prolong 
The  distant  notes  of  holy  song, 
As  if  some  angel  spoke  again, 
1  All  peace  on  earth,  good-will  to  men ; ' 
If  ever  from  an  English  heart, 
Oh,  here  let  prejudice  depart, 
And,  partial  feeling  cast  aside, 
Record  that  Fox  a  Briton  died  ! 
When  Europe  crouched  to  France's  yoke, 
And  Austria  bent,  and  Prussia  broke, 
And  the  firm  Russian's  purpose  brave 
Was  bartered  by  a  timorous  slave, 


M ARM  ION. 


63 


Even  then  dishonor's  peace  he  spurned, 
The  sullied  olive-branch  returned, 
Stood  for  his  country's  glory  fast, 
And  nailed  her  colors  .to  the  mast ! 
Heaven,  to  reward  his  firmness,  gave 
A  portion  in  this  honored  grave, 
And  ne'er  held  marble  in  its  trust 
Of  two  such  wondrous  men  the  dust. 

With  more  than  mortal  powers  endowed, 
How  high  they  soared  above  the  crowd  ! 
Theirs  was  no  common  party  race, 
Jostling  by  dark  intrigue  for  place ; 
Like  fabled  Gods,  their  mighty  war 
Shook  realms  and  nations  in  its  jar ; 
Beneath  each  banner  proud  to  stand, 
Looked  up  the  noblest  of  the  land, 
Till  through  the  British  world  were  known 
The  names  of  Pitt  and  Fox  alone. 
Spells  of  such  force  no  wizard  grave 
E'er  framed  in  dark  Thessalian  cave, 
Though  his  could  drain  the  ocean  dry, 
And  force  the  planets  from  the  sky. 
These  spells  are  spent,  and,  spent  with  these, 
The  wine  of  life  is  on  the  lees, 
Genius  and  taste  and  talent  gone, 
Forever  tombed  beneath  the  stone, 
Where  —  taming  thought  to  human  pride  !  — 
The  mighty  chiefs  sleep  side  by  side. 
Drop  upon  Fox's  grave  the  tear, 
'T  will  trickle  to  his  rival's  bier  ; 
O'er  Pitt's  the  mournful  requiem  sound, 
And  Fox's  shall  the  notes  rebound. 
The  solemn  echo  seems  to  cry,  — 
'  Here  let  their  discord  with  them  die. 
Speak  not  for  those  a  separate  doom 
Whom  Fate  made  brothers  in  the  tomb ; 
But  search  the  land,  of  living  men, 
Where  wilt  thou  find  their  like  again  ?  ' 

Rest,  ardent  spirits,  till  the  cries 
Of  dying  nature  bid  you  rise  ! 
Not  even  your  Britain's  groans  can  pierce 
The  leaden  silence  of  your  hearse  ; 
Then,  oh,  how  impotent  and  vain 
This  grateful  tributary  strain  ! 
Though  not  unmarked  from  northern  clime, 
Ye  heard  the  Border  Minstrel's  rhyme : 
His  Gothic  harp  has  o'er  you  rung; 
The  Bard  you  deigned  to  praise,  your  death- 
less names  has  sung. 

Stay  yet,  illusion,  stay  a  while, 
My  wildered  fancy  still  beguile  ! 
From  this  high  theme  how  can  I  part, 
Ere  half  unloaded  is  my  heart ! 
For  all  the  tears  e'er  sorrow  drew, 
And  all  the  raptures  fancy  knew, 
And  all  the  keener  rush  of  blood 
That  throbs  through  bard  in  bardlike  mood, 


Were  here  a  tribute  mean  and  low, 
Though  all  their   mingled   streams   could 

flow  — 
Woe,  wonder,  and  sensation  high, 
In  one  spring-tide  of  ecstasy  !  — 
It  will  not  be  —  it  may  not  last  — 
The  vision  of  enchantment 's  past : 
Like  frostwork  in  the  morning  ray, 
The  fancy  fabric  melts  away  ; 
Each  Gothic  arch,  memorial-stone, 
And  long,  dim,  lofty  aisle,  are  gone  ; 
And,  lingering  last,  deception  dear, 
The  choir's  high  sounds  die  on  my  ear. 
Now  slow  return  the  lonely  down, 
The  silent  pastures  bleak  and  brown, 
The  farm  begirt  with  copsewood  wild, 
The  gambols  of  each  frolic  child, 
Mixing  their  shrill  cries  with  the  tone 
Of  Tweed's  dark  waters  rushing  on. 

Prompt  on  unequal  tasks  to  run, 
Thus  Nature  disciplines  her  son : 
Meeter,  she  says,  for  me  to  stray, 
And  waste  the  solitary  day 
In  plucking  from  yon  fen  the  reed, 
And  watch  it  floating  down  the  Tweed, 
Or  idly  list  the  shrilling  lay 
With  which  the  milkmaid  cheers  her  way. 
Marking  its  cadence  rise  and  fail, 
As  from  the  field,  beneath  her  pail, 
She  trips  it  down  the  uneven  dale ; 
Meeter  for  me,  by  yonder  cairn, 
The  ancient  shepherd's  tale  to  learn, 
Though  oft  he  stop  in  rustic  fear, 
Lest  his  old  legends  tire  the  ear 
Of  one  who,  in  his  simple  mind, 
May  boast  of  book-learned  taste  refined. 

But  thou,  my  friend,  canst  fitly  tell  — 
For  few  have  read  romance  so  well  — 
How  still  the  legendary  lay 
O'er  poet's  bosom  holds  its  sway ; 
How  on  the  ancient  minstrel  strain 
Time  lays  his  palsied  hand  in  vain  ; 
And  how  our  hearts  at  doughty  deeds, 
By  warriors  wrought  in  steely  weeds, 
Still  throb  for  fear  and  pity's  sake  ; 
As  when  the  Champion  of  the  Lake 
Enters  Morgana's  fated  house, 
Or  in  the  Chapel  Perilous, 
Despising  spells  and  demons'  force, 
Holds  converse  with  the  unburied  corse ; 
Or  when,  Dame  Ganore's  grace  to  move  — 
Alas,  that  lawless  was  their  love  !  — 
He  sought  proud  Tarquin  in  his  den, 
And  freed  full  sixty  knights  ;  or  when, 
A  sinful  man  and  unconfessed, 
He  took  the  Sangreal's  holy  quest, 
And  slumbering  saw  the  vision  high 
He  might  not  view  with  waking  eye. 


64 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL   WORKS. 


The  mightiest  chiefs  of  British  song 
Scorned  not  such  legends  to  prolong. 
They  gleam  through  Spenser's  elfin  dream, 
And  mix  in  Milton's  heavenly  theme  : 
And  Dryden,  in  immortal  strain, 
Had  raised  the  Table  Round  again. 
But  that  a  ribald  king  and  court 
Bade  him  toil  on,  to  make  them  sport: 
Demanded  for  their  niggard  pay, 
Fit  for  their  souls,  a  looser  lay, 
Licentious  satire"  song,  and  play  ; 
The  world  defrauded  of  the  high  design, 
Profaned    the    God-given    strength,    and 
marred  the  lofty  line. 

Warmed  by  such  names,  well  may  we  then, 
Though  dwindled  sons  of  little  men, 
Essay  to  break  a  feeble  lance 
In  the  fair  fields  of  old  romance  ; 
Or  seek  the  moated  castle's  cell, 
Where  long  through  talisman  and  spell, 
While  tyrants  ruled  and  damsels  wept, 
Thy  Genius,  Chivalry,  hath  slept. 
There  sound  the  harpings  of  the  North, 
Till  he  awake  and  sally  forth, 
On  venturous  quest  to  prick  again. 
In  all  his  arms,  with  all  his  train, 
Shield,  lance,  and  brand,  and  plume,  and 

scarf, 
Fay,  giant,  dragon,  squire,  and  dwarf, 
And  wizard  with  his  wand  of  might, 
And  errant  maid  on  palfrey  white. 
Around  the  Genius  weave  their  spells, 
Pure  Love,  who  scarce  his  passion  tells ; 
Mystery,  half  veiled  and  half  revealed  ; 
And  Honor,  with  his  spotless  shield; 
Attention,  with  fixed  eye  ;  and  Fear, 
That  loves  the  tale  she  shrinks  to  hear  ; 
And  gentle  Courtesy;  and  Faith, 
Unchanged  by  sufferings,  time,  or  death  : 
And  Valor,  lion-mettled  lord, 
Leaning  upon  his  own  good  sword. 

Well  has  thy  fair  achievement  shown 
A  worthy  meed  may  thus  be  won  : 
Ytene's  oaks  —  beneath  whose  shade 
Their  theme  the  merry  minstrels  made, 
Of  Ascapart,  and  Bevis  bold, 
And  that  Red  King,  who,  while  of  old 
Through  Boldrewood  the  chase  he  led, 
By  his  loved  huntsman's  arrow  bled  — 
Ytene's  oaks  have  heard  again 
Renewed  such  legendary  strain ; 
For  thou  hast  sung,  how  he  of  Gaul, 
That  Amadis  so  famed  in  hall, 
For  Oriana,  foiled  in  fight 
The  Necromancer's  felon  might ; 
And  well  in  modern  verse  hast  wove 
Partenopex's  mystic  love : 
Hear,  then,  attentive  to  my  lay, 
A  knightly  tale  of  Albion's  elder  day. 


lllarmion. 


CANTO    FIRST. 


THE    CASTLE. 


DAY  set  on  Norham's  castled  steep, 
And  Tweed's  fair  river,  broad  and  deep, 

And  Cheviot's  mountains  lone ; 
The  battled  towers,  the  donjon  keep, 
The  loophole  grates  where  captives  weep, 
The  flanking  walls  that  round  it  sweep, 

In  yellow  lustre  shone. 
The  warriors  on  the  turrets  high, 
Moving  athwart  the  evening  sky. 

Seemed  forms  of  giant  height  ; 
Their  armor,  as  it  caught  the  rays. 
Flashed  back  again  the  western  blaze, 

In  lines  of  dazzling  light. 


Saint  George's  banner,  broad  and  gay. 
Now  faded,  as  the  fading  ray 

Less  bright,  and  less,  was  flung  : 
The  evening  gale  had  scarce  the  power 
To  wave  it  on  the  donjon  tower, 

So  heavily  it  hung. 
The  scouts  had  parted  on  their  search, 

The  castle  gates  were  barred  ; 
Above  the  gloomy  portal  arch. 
Timing  his  footsteps  to  a  march, 

The  warder  kept  his  guard. 
Low  humming,  as  he  paced  along, 
Some  ancient  Border  gathering  song. 

in. 

A  distant  trampling  sound  he  hears  : 
He  looks  abroad,  and  soon  appears. 
O'er  Horncliff-hill,  a  plump  of  spears 

Beneath  a  pennon  gay  ; 
A  horseman,  darting  from  the  crowd 
Like  lightning  from  a  summer  cloud, 
Spurs  on  his  mettled  courser  proud, 

Before  the  dark  array. 
Beneath  the  sable  palisade 
That  closed  the  castle  barricade, 

His  bugle-horn  he  blew; 
The  warder  hasted  from  the  wall, 
And  warned  the  captain  in  the  hall, 

For  well  the  blast  he  knew ; 
And  joyfully  that  knight  did  call 
To  sewer,  squire,  and  seneschal. 


IV. 

'  Now  broach  ye  a  pipe  of  Malvoisie, 

Bring  pasties  of  the  doe, 
And  quickly  make  the  entrance  free, 


MARMION. 


65 


And  bid  my  heralds  ready  be, 
And  every  minstrel  sound  his  glee, 

And  all  our  trumpets  blow  ; 
And,  from  the  platform,  spare  ye  not 
To  fire  a  noble  salvo-shot ; 

Lord  M  arm  ion  waits  below  ! ' 
Then  to*the  castle's  lower  ward 

Sped  forty  yeomen  tall, 
The  iron-studded  gates  unbarred, 
Raised  the  portcullis1  ponderous  guard, 
The  lofty  palisade  unsparred, 

And  let  the  drawbridge  fall. 

v. 
Along  the  bridge  Lord  Marmion  rode, 
Proudly  his  red-roan  charger  trode, 
His  helm  hung  at  the  saddle  bow ; 
Well  by  his  visage  you  might  know 
He  was  a  stalworth  knieht  and  keen, 
And  had  in  many  a  battle  been  ; 
The  scar  on  his  brown  cheek  revealed 
A  token  true  of  Bosworth  field ; 
His  eyebrow  dark  and  eye  of  fire 
Showed  spirit  proud  and  prompt  to  ire, 
Yet  lines  of  thought  upon  his  cheek 
Did  deep  design  and  counsel  speak. 
His  forehead,  by  his  casque  worn  bare, 
His  thick  moustache  and  curly  hair, 
Coal-black,  and  grizzled  here  and  there, 

But  more  through  toil  than  age, 
His  square-turned  joints  and  strength 
limb. 


of 


Showed  him  no  carpet  knight  so  trim. 
But  in  close  fight  a  champion  grim, 
In  camps  a  leader  sage. 

VI. 

Well  was  he  armed  from  head  to  heel,  ' 

In  mail  and  plate  of  Milan  steel ; 

But  his  strong  helm,  of  mighty  cost, 

Was  all  with  burnished  gold  embossed. 

Amid  the  plumage  of  the  crest 

A  falcon  hovered  on  her  nest, 

With  wings  outspread  and  forward  breast 

E'en  such  a  falcon,  on  his  shield, 

Soared  sable  in  an  azure  field  : 

The  golden  legend  bore  aright, 

*  Who  checks  at  me,  to  death  is  dight.' 

Blue  was  the  charger's  broidered  rein  ; 

Blue  ribbons  decked  his  arching  mane  ; 

The  knightly  housing's  ample  fold 

Was  velvet  blue  and  trapped  with  gold. 

VII. 

Behind  him  rode  two  gallant  squires, 
Of  noble  name  and  knightly  sires  : 
They  burned  the  gilded  spurs  to  claim, 
For  well  could  each  a  war-horse  tame, 
Could  draw  the  bow,  the  sword  could  sway. 
And  lightly  bear  the  ring  away  ; 
Nor  less  with  courteous  precepts  stored, 
Could  dance  in  hall,  and  carve  at  board, 
And  frame  love-ditties  passing  rare, 
And  sing  them  to  a  lady  fair. 


66 


SCOTT S  POETICAL    WORKS. 


VIII. 


Four  men-at-arms  came  at  their  backs, 
With  halbert,  bill,  and  battle-axe  ; 
They  bore  Lord  Marmion's  lance  so  stron< 
And  led  his  sumpter-mules  along, 


And  ambling  palfrey,  when  at  need 
Him  listed  ease  his  battle-steed. 
The  last  and  trustiest  of  the  four 
On  high  his  forky  pennon  bore  ; 
Like  swallow's  tail  in  shape  and  hue, 


MARMION. 


6/ 


Flattered  die  streamer  glossy  blue, 
Where,  blazoned  sable,  as  before. 
The  towering  falcon  seemed  to  soar. 
last,  twenty  yeomen,  two  and  two, 
in  boeen  bw  k  end  jerkins  blue, 
With  Ealcom  broidered  on  each  breast, 
tided  on  their  lord's  beh 

>od, 
Knew  huntJnc-craft  by  lake  or  wood; 
I   i<  li  one  1  -ix-foot  bow  could  bend. 
Ainr  tar  a  cloth  yard  shaft  could  send: 

Each  held  a  boar-spear  tough  and  strong. 
And  at  their  belti  their  quivers  rung. 
Their  dusty  palfreys  and  array 
Showed  they  had  marched  a  weary  way. 


IX. 

thai  I  should  tell  you  now, 
ut Iv  ann.d.  .wn\  ordered  how, 

The  soldiers  of  the  guard, 
With  musket,  pike,  and  morion, 
To  welcome  noble  Marmion, 

Stood  in  the  castle-yard: 
Minstrels  and  trumpeters  were  there, 
The  gunner  held  his  linstock  yare, 

For  welcome-shot  prepared : 
Entered  the  train,  and  such  a  clang 
As  then  through  all  his  turrets  rang 

Old  Norham  never  heard. 


The  guards  their  morrice-pikes  advanced, 
The  trumpets  flourished  brave, 


The  cannon  from  the  ramparts  glanced, 

And  thundering  welcome  gave. 
A  blithe  salute,  in  martial  sort, 

The  minstrels  well  might  sound, 
For,  as  Lord  Marmion  crossed  the  court, 

He  scattered  angels  round. 
1  Welcome  to  Norham,  Marmion  ! 

Stout  heart  and  open  hand  ! 
Well  dost  thou  brook  thy  gallant  roan, 

Thou  flower  of  English  land  ! ' 

XI. 

Two  pursuivants,  whom  tabards  deck, 
With  silver  scutcheon  round  their  neck, 

Stood  on  the  steps  of  stone 
By  which  you  reach  the  donjon  gate, 
And  there,  with  herald  pomp  and  state, 

They  hailed  Lord  Marmion : 
They  hailed  him  Lord  of  Fontenaye, 
Of  Lutterward,  and  Scrivelbaye, 

Of  Tamworth  tower  and  town ; 
And  he,  their  courtesy  to  requite, 
Gave  them  a  chain  of  twelve  marks'  weight, 

All  as  he  lighted  down. 
'  Now,  largesse,  largesse,  Lord  Marmion, 

Knight  of  the  crest  of  gold  ! 
A  blazoned  shield,  in  battle  won, 

Ne'er  guarded  heart  so  bold.' 

XII. 

They  marshalled  him  to  the  castle-hall, 

Where  the  guests  stood  all  aside, 
And  loudly  flourished  the  trumpet-call, 


68 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL    WORKS. 


And  the  heralds  loudly  cried,  — 
1  Room,  lordlings,  room  for  Lord  Marmion, 

With  the  crest 'and  helm  of  gold  ! 
Full  well  we  know  the  trophies  won 

In  the  lists  at  Cottiswold  : 
There,  vainly  Ralph  de  Wilton  strove 

'Gainst  Marmion's  force  to  stand : 
To  him  he  lost  his  lady-love, 

And  to  the  king  his  land. 
Ourselves  beheld  the  listed  field, 

A  sight  both  sad  and  fair  : 
We  saw  Lord  Marmion  pierce  his  shield. 

And  saw  his  saddle  bare  ; 
We  saw  the  victor  win  the  crest 

He  wears  with  worthy  pride, 
And  on  the  gibbet-tree,  reversed, 

His  foeman's  scutcheon  tied. 
Place,  nobles,  for  the  Falcon-Knight  ! 

Room,  room,  ye  gentles  gay, 
For  him  who  conquered  in  the  right. 

Marmion  of  Fontenaye  ! ' 

XIII. 

Then  stepped,  to  meet  that  noble  lord. 

Sir  Hugh  the  Heron  bold. 
Baron  of  Twisell  and  of  Ford, 

And  Captain  of  the  Hold  : 
He  led  Lord  Marmion  to  the  deas. 

Raised  o'er  the  pavement  high. 
And  placed  him  in  the  upper  place  — 

They  feasted  full  and  high  : 
The  whiles  a  Northern  harper  rude 
Chanted  a  rhyme  of  deadly  feud. 

•  How  the      ice  Thirwalls.  and  Ridleys  all. 


Stout  Willimondswick, 
And  Hardriding  Dick. 
And  Hughie  of  Hawdon.  and 
Will  o'  the  Wall. 
Have  set  on  Sir  Albany   I 

erstonhaugh. 
And  taken  his  lite  at  the  I 
man'.vsl 
Scantly  Lord  Marmion1 
could  brook 
The  harper's  barban  ma  la)  . 
Yet    much    he     praised     the 
pains  he  took. 
And  well  those  pains   did 
pay  : 
For  lady's  suit  and  minstrel's 

rain 
By  knight  .should  ne'er  Ik 
in  vain. 


i  .od     Lord     Marmion. 
Heron  U 
'Of  your  fair  court 
I    pray    you    bide    some    litth 
ice 
In  this  poor  tower  with  me. 
Here  may  you  keep  your  arms  from  ru>t. 

May  breathe  your  war-horse  well  : 
Seldom  hath  passed  a  week  but  joust 

Or  feat  of  arms  befell. 
The  Scots  can  rein  a  mettled  steed. 

And  love  to  couch  a  spear  :  — 
Saint  George  !  a  stirring  life  they  lead 

That  have  such  neighbors  near ! 
Then  stay  with  us  a  little  space. 
Our  Northern  wars  to  learn  : 
I  pray  you  for  your  lady's  gra< 
Lord  Marmion's  brow  grew  stern. 

xv. 
The  captain  marked  his  altered  look. 

And  gave  the  squire  the  sign  : 
A  mighty  wassail-bowl  he  took. 

And  crowned  it  high  with  wine. 
1  Now  pledge  me  here,  Lord  Marmion  : 

But  first  I  pray  thee  fair, 
Where  hast  thou  left  that  page  of  thine 
That  used  to  serve  thy  cup  of  wine. 

Whose  beauty  was  so  rare  ? 
When  last  in  Raby-towers  we  met, 

The  boy  I  closely  eyed, 
And  often  marked  his  cheeks  were  wet 

With  tears  he  fain  would  hide. 
His  was  no  rugged  horse-boy's  hand. 
To  burnish  shield  or  sharpen  brand. 

Or  saddle  battle-steed, 
But  meeter  seemed  for  lady  fair. 
To  fan  her  cheek,  or  curl  her  hair. 
Or  through  embroider}-,  rich  and  rare 


MARMION. 


69 


The  slender  silk  to  lead  : 
His  skin  was  fair,  his  ringlets  gold. 

His  bosom  —  when  he  sighed, 
The  russet  doublet's  rugged  fold 

Could  scarce  repel  its  pride  ! 
Say,  hast  thou  given  that  lovely  youth 

To  serve  in  lady's  bower  ? 


Or  was  the  gentle  page,  in  sooth, 
A  gentle  paramour  ? ' 


XVI. 


Lord  Marmion  ill  could  brook  such  jest ; 

He  rolled  his  kindling  eye, 
With  pain  his  rising  wrath  suppressed, 


70 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Yet  made  a  calm  reply  : 
'  That  boy  thou  thought  so  goodly  fair. 
He  might  not  brook  the  Northern  air. 
More  of  his  fate  if  thou  wouldst  learn, 
I  left  him  sick  in  Lindisfarne. 
Enough  of  him.  —  But,  Heron,  say, 
Why  does  thy  lovely  lady  gay 
Disdain  to  grace  the  hall  to-day  ? 
Or  has  that  dame,  so  fair  and  sage, 
Gone  on  some  pious  pilgrimage  ?  '  — 
He  spoke  in  covert  scorn,  for  fame 
Whispered  light  tales  of  Heron's  dame. 


I  have  not  ridden  in  Scotland  since 
James  backed  the  cause  of  that  mock  prince. 
Warbeck,  that  Flemish  counterfeit, 
Who  on  the  gibbet  paid  the  cheat. 
Then  did  I  march  with  Surrey's  power, 
What  time  we  razed  old  Ayton  tower.'  — 

XIX. 

'  For  such-like  need,  my  lord,  I  trow, 
Norham  can  find  you  guides  enow ; 
For  here  be  some  have  pricked  as  far 
On  Scottish  ground  as  to  Dunbar, 


XVII. 

Unmarked,  at  least  unrecked,  the  taunt, 

Careless  the  knight  replied  : 
1  No*bird  whose  feathers  gayly  flaunt 

Delights  in  cage  to  bide  ; 
Norham  is  grim  and  grated  close, 
Hemmed  in  by  battlement  and  fosse, 

And  many  a  darksome  tower, 
And  better  loves  my  lady  bright 
To  sit  in  liberty  and  light 

In  fair  Queen  Margaret's  bower. 
We  hold  our  greyhound  in  our  hand, 

Our  falcon  on  our  glove, 
But  where  shall  we  find  leash  or  band 

For  dame  that  loves  to  rove  ? 
Let  the  wild  falcon  soar  her  swing, 
She  '11  stoop  when  she  has  tired  her  wing.' 

XVIII. 

'  Nay,  if  with  Royal  James's  bride 
The  lovely  Lady  Heron  bide, 
Behold  me  here  a  messenger, 
Your  tender  greetings  prompt  to  bear ; 
For,  to  the  Scottish  court  addressed, 
I  journey  at  our  king's  behest, 
And  pray  you,  of  your  grace,  provide 
For  me  and  mine  a  trusty  guide. 


Have  drunk  the  monks  of  Saint  Bothan's  ale, 
And  driven  the  beeves  of  Lauderdale, 
Harried  the  wives  of  Greenlaw's  goods, 
And  given  them  light  to  set  their  hoods/  — 

xx. 

'  Now,  in  good  sooth,'  Lord  Marmion  cried, 

c  Were  I  in  warlike  wise  to  ride, 

A  better  guard  I  would  not  lack 

Than  your  stout  forayers  at  my  back  ; 

But  as  in  form  of  peace  I  go, 

A  friendly  messenger,  to  know, 

Why,  through  all  Scotland,  near  and  far, 

Their  king  is  mustering  troops  for  war. 

The  sight  of  plundering  Border  spears 

Might  justify  suspicious  fears, 

And  deadly  feud  or  thirst  of  spoil 

Break  out  in  some  unseemly  broil. 

A  herald  were  my  fitting  guide  ; 

Or  friar,  sworn  in  peace  to  bide  ; 

Or  pardoner,  or  travelling  priest, 

Or  strolling  pilgrim,  at  the  least/ 

XXI. 

The  captain  mused  a  little  space, 

And  passed  his  hand  across  his  face. — 

'  Fain  would  I  find  the  guide  you  want, 


M ARM  ION. 


71 


But  ill  may  spare  a  pursuivant, 
The  only  men  that  safe  can  ride 
Mine  errands  on  the  Scottish  side  : 
And  though  a  bishop  built  this  fort, 
Few  holy  brethren  here  resort ; 
Even  our  good  chaplain,  as  I  ween, 
Sin<)e  our  last  siege  we  have  not  seen. 
The  mass  he  might  not  sing  or  say 
Upon  one  stinted  meal  a-day ; 
So,  safe  he  sat  in  Durham  aisle, 
And  prayed  for  our  success  the  while. 
Our  Norham  vicar,  woe  betide, 
Is  all  too  well  in  case  to  ride ; 
The  priest  of  Shoreswood  —  he  could  rein 
The  wildest  war-horse  in  your  train, 
But  then  no  spearman  in  the  hall 
Will  sooner  swear,  or  stab,  or  brawl. 
Friar  John  of  Tillmouth  were  the  man ; 
A  blithesome  brother  at  the  can, 
A  welcome  guest  in  hall  and  bower, 
He  knows  each  castle,  town,  and  tower. 
In  which  the  wine  and  ale  is  good, 
'Twixt  Newcastle  and  Holy-Rood. 
But  that  good  man,  as  ill  befalls, 
Hath  seldom  left  our  castle  walls, 
Since,  on  the  vigil  of  Saint  Bede, 
In  evil  hour  he  crossed  the  Tweed, 
To  teach  Dame  Alison  her  creed. 
Old  Bughtrig  found  him  with  his  wife, 
And  John,  an  enemy  to  strife, 
Sans  frock  and  hood,  fled  for  his  life. 
.The  jealous  churl  hath  deeply  swore 
That,  if  again  he  venture  o'er, 
He  shall  shrieve  penitent  no  more. 
Little  he  loves  such  risks,  I  know, 
Yet  in  your  guard  perchance  will  go.' 

XXII. 

Young  Selby,  at  the  fair  hall-board, 
Carved  to  his  uncle  and  that  lord, 
And  reverently  took  up  the  word  : 
*  Kind  uncle,  woe  were  we  each  one, 
If  harm  should  hap  to  brother  John. 
He  is  a  man  of  mirthful  speech, 
Can  many  a  game  and  gambol  teach  ; 
Full  well  at  tables  can  he  play, 
And  sweep  at  bowls  the  stake  away. 
None  can  a  lustier  carol  bawl, 
The  needfullest  among  us  all, 
When  time  hangs  heavy  in  the  hall, 
And  snow  comes  thick  at  Christmas  tide, 
And  we  can  neither  hunt  nor  ride 
A  foray  on  the  Scottish  side. 
The  vowed  revenge  of  Bughtrig  rude 
May  end  in  worse  than  loss  of  hood. 
Let  Friar  John  in  safety  still 
In  chimney-corner  snore  his  fill, 
Roast  hissing  crabs,  or  flagons  swill; 
Last  night,  to  Norham  there  came  one 
Will  better  guide  Lord  Marmion.'  — 


'  Nephew,'  quoth  Heron,  '  by  my  fay, 
Well  hast  thou  spoke  ;.  say  forth  thy  say.'  — 

XXIII. 

'  Here  is  a  holy  Palmer  come, 

From  Salem  first,  and  last  from  Rome : 

One  that  hath  kissed  the  blessed  tomb, 

And  visited  each  holy  shrine 

In  Araby  and  Palestine  ; 

On  hills  of  Armenie  hath  been, 

Where  Noah's  ark  may  yet  be  seen ; 

By  that  Red  Sea,  too,  hath  he  trod, 

Which  parted  at  the  Prophet's  rod  ; 

In  Sinai's  wilderness  he  saw 

The  Mount  where  Israel  heard  the  law, 

Mid  thunder-dint,  and  flashing  levin, 

And  shadows,  mists,  and  darkness,  given. 

He  shows  Saint  James's  cockle-shell, 

Of  fair  Montserrat,  too,  can  tell ; 

And  of  that  Grot  where  Olives  nod, 
Where,  darling  of  each  heart  and  eye, 
From  all  the  youth  of  Sicily, 

Saint  Rosalie  retired  to  God. 

XXIV. 

'  To  stout  Saint  George  of  Norwich  merrj. 
Saint  Thomas,  too,  of  Canterbury, 
Cuthbert  of  Durham  and  Saint  Bede, 
For  his  sins'  pardon  hath  he  prayed. 
He  knows  the  passes  of  the  North, 
And  seeks  far  shrines  beyond  the  Forth ; 
Little  he  eats,  and  long  will  wake, 
And  drinks  but  of  the  stream  or  lake. 
This  were  a  guide  o'er  moor  and  dale ; 
But  when  our  John  hath  quaffed  his  ale. 
As  little  as  the  wind  that  blows, 
And  warms  itself  against  his  nose, 
Kens  he,  or  cares,  which  way  he  goes.'  — 

XXV. 

1  Gramercy  ! '  quoth  Lord  Marmion, 
1  Full  loath  were  I  that  Friar  John, 
That  venerable  man,  for  me 
Were  placed  in  fear  or  jeopardy : 
If  this  same  Palmer  will  me  lead 

From  hence  to  Holy-Rood, 
Like  his  good  saint,  I  '11  pay  his  meed, 
Instead  of  cockle-shell  or  bead, 

With  angels  fair  and  good. 
I  love  such  holy  ramblers  ;  still 
They  know  to  charm  a  weary  hill 

With  song,  romance,  or  lay : 
Some  jovial  tale,  or  glee,  or  jest, 
Some  lying  legend,  at  the  least, 

They  bring  to  cheer  the  way.'  — 

XXVI. 

•  Ah  !  noble  sir,'  young  Selby  said 
And  finger  on  his'  lip  he  laid, 


72 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL    WORKS. 


1  This  man  knows  much,  perchance  e'en 

more 
Than  he  could  learn  by  holy  lore. 
Still  to  himself  he  's  muttering, 
And  shrinks  as  at  some  unseen  thing. 
Last  night  we  listened  at  his  cell ; 
Strange  sounds  we  heard,  and,  sooth  to  tell. 
He  murmured  on  till  morn,  howe'er 
No  living  mortal  could  be  near. 
Sometimes  I  thought  I  heard  it  plain, 
As  other  voices  spoke  again. 
I  cannot  tell  —  I  like  it  not  — 
Friar  John  hath  told  us  it  is  wrote, 
No  conscience  clear  and  void  of  wrong 
Can  rest  awake  and  pray  so  long. 
Himself  still  sleeps  before  his  beads 
Have  marked  ten  aves  and  two  creeds.'  — 

XXVII. 

1  Let  pass,'  quoth  Marmion  ;  '  by  my  fay, 
This  man  shall  guide  me  on  my  way. 
Although  the  great  arch-fiend  and  he 
Had  sworn  themselves  of  company. 
So  please  you,  gentle  youth,  to  call 
This  Palmer  to  the  castle-hall.' 
The  summoned  Palmer  came  in  place  : 
His  sable  cowl  o'erhung  his  face ; 
In  his  black  mantle  was  he  clad, 
With  Peter's  keys,  in  cloth  of  red, 

On  his  broad  shoulders  wrought; 
The  scallop  shell  his  cap  did  deck  ; 
The  crucifix  around  his  neck 

Was  from  Loretto  brought ; 
His  sandals  were  with  travel  tore, 
Staff,  budget,  bottle,  scrip,  he  wore  ; 
The  faded  palm-branch  in  his  hand 
Showed  pilgrim  from  the  Holy  Land. 

XXVTIl. 

Whenas  the  Palmer  came  in  hall, 

Nor  lord  nor  knight  was  there  more  tall, 

Or  had  a  statelier  step  withal, 

Or  looked  more  high  and  keen  ; 
For  no  saluting  did  he  wait, 
But  strode  across  the  hall  of  state, 
And  fronted  Marmion  where  he  sate, 

As  he  his  peer  had  been. 
But  his  gaunt  frame  was  worn  with  toil ; 
His  cheek  was  sunk,  alas  the  while ! 
And  when  he  struggled  at  a  smile 

His  eye  looked  haggard  wild : 
Poor  wretch,  the  mother  that  him  bare, 
If  she  had  been  in  presence  there, 
In  his  wan  face  and  sunburnt  hair 

She  had  not  known  her  child. 
Danger,  long  travel,  want,  or  woe, 
Soon  change  the  form  that  best  we  know  — 
For  deadly  fear  can  time  outgo, 

And  blanch  at  once  the  hair ; 
Hard  toil  can  roughen  form  and  face, 


And  want  can  quench  the  eye's  bright  grace, 
,Nor  does  old  age  a  wrinkle  trace 

More  deeply  than  despair. 
Happy  whom  none  of  these  befall, 
But  this  poor  Palmer  knew  them  all. 

XXIX. 

Lord  Marmion  then  his  boon  did  ask  ; 
The  Palmer  took  on  him  the  task. 
So  he  would  march  with  morning  tide. 
To  Scottish  court  to  be  his  guide. 
1  But  I  have  solemn  vows  to  pay, 
And  may  not  linger  by  the  way, 

To  fair  Saint  Andrew's  bound, 
Within  the  ocean-cave  to  pray, 
Where  good  Saint  Rule  his  holy  lay. 
From  midnight  to  the  dawn  of  day, 

Sung  to  the  billows'  sound  ; 
Thence  to  Saint  Fillan's  blessed  well, 
Whose  spring  can  frenzied  dreams  dispel. 

And  the  crazed  brain  restore. 
Saint  Mary  grant  that  cave  or  spring 
Could  back  to  peace  my  bosom  bring, 

Or  bid  it  throb  no  more  ! ' 

\xx. 

And  now  the  midnight  draught  of  sleep, 
Where  wine  and  spices  richly  steep, 
In  massive  bowl  of  silver  deep, 

The  page  presents  on  knee. 
Lord  Marmion  drank  a  fair  good  rest, 
The  captain  pledged  his  noble  giu 
The  cup  went  through  among  the  rest, 

Who  drained  it  merrily  ; 
Alone  the  Palmer  passed  it  by, 
Though  Selby  pressed  him  courteously. 
This  was  a  sign  the  feast  was  o'er  ; 
It  hushed  the  merry  wassail  roar, 

The  minstrels  ceased  to  sound. 
Soon  in  the  castle  nought  was  heard 
But  the  slow  footstep  of  the  guard 

Pacing  his  sober  round. 

XXXI. 

With  early  dawn  Lord  Marmion  rose  : 

And  first  the  chapel  doors  unclose ; 

Then,  after  morning  rites  were  done  — 

A  hasty  mass  from  Friar  John  — 

And  knight  and  squire  had  broke  their  fast 

On  rich  substantial  repast, 

Lord  Marmion's  bugles  blew  to  horse. 

Then  came  the  stirrup-cup  in  course  : 

Between  the  baron  and  his  host, 

No  point  of  courtesy  was  lost ; 

High  thanks  were  by  Lord  Marmion  paid, 

Solemn  excuse  the  captain  made, 

Till,  filing  from  the  gate,  had  passed 

That  noble  train,  their  lord  the  last. 

Then  loudly  rung  the  trumpet  call ; 


MARMION. 


73 


.Thundered  the  cannon  from  the  wall, 

And  shook  the  Scottish  shore  ; 
Around  the  castle  eddied  slow 
Volumes  of  smoke  as  white  as  snow 


And  hid  its  turrets  hoar, 
Till  they  rolled  forth  upon  the  air, 
And  met  the  river  breezes  there, 
Which  gave  again  the  prospect  fair. 


74 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL   WORKS. 


illarmion. 


INTRODUCTION  TO  CANTO  SECOND. 


To  the  REV.   JOHN    MARRIOT,   A.M. 

Ashesiiel,  Ettrick  Forest. 

The  scenes  are  desert  now  and  bare, 
Where  flourished  once  a  forest  fair, 
When  these  waste  glens  with  copse  wen 

lined, 
And  peopled  with  the  hart  and  hind. 
Yon  thorn — perchance  whose  prickly  spears 
Have  fenced  him  for  three  hundred  years, 
While  fell  around  his  green  compeers  — 
Yon  lonely  thorn,  would  he  could  tell 
The  changes  of  his  parent  dell, 
Since  he,  so  gray  and  stubborn  now. 
Waved  in  each  breeze  a  sapling  bough  ! 
Would  he  could  tell  how  deep  the  shade 
A  thousand  mingled  branches  made  ; 
How  broad  the  shadows  of  the  oak. 
How  clung  the  rowan  to  the  rock, 
And  through  the  foliage  showed  his  head. 
With  narrow  leaves  and  berries  red  : 
What  pines  on  every  mountain  sprung, 
O'er  every  dell  what  birches  hung, 
In  every  breeze  what  aspens  shook, 
What  alders  shaded  every  brook  ! 

'  Here,  in  my  shade,'  methinks  he  'd  say, 
'  The  mighty  stag  at  noontide  lay  ; 
The  wolf  I  've  seen,  a  fiercer  game,  — 
The  neighboring  dingle  bears  his  name,  — 
With  lurching  step  around  me  prowl, 
And  stop,  against  the  moon  to  howl  : 
The  mountain-boar,  on  battle  set, 
His  tusks  upon  my  stem  would  whet : 
While  doe,  and  roe,  and  red-deer  good. 
Have  bounded  by  through  gay  greenwood. 
Then  oft  from  Newark's  riven  tower 
Sallied  a  Scottish  monarch's  power  : 
A  thousand  vassals  mustered  round, 
With  horse,  and  hawk,  and  horn,  and  hound : 
And  I  might  see  the  youth  intent 
Guard  every  pass  with  crossbow  bent ; 
And  through  the  brake  the  rangers  stalk, 
And  falconers  hold  the  ready  hawk  : 


And  foresters,  in  greenwood  trim. 
Lead  in  the  leash  the  ga/ehounds  grim, 
Attentive,  as  the  bratcJiet's  I 
From  the  dark  covert  drove  the  pi 
To  slip  them  as  he  broke  away. 
The  startled  quarry  bounds  amain, 
As  fast  the  gallant  greyhounds  strain  ; 
Whistles  the  arrow  horn  the  bow. 
Answers  the  harquebus*  below  ; 
While  all  the  rocking  hills  reply 
To  hoof-clang,  hound,  and  hunters1  cry, 
And  bugles  ringing  lightsomely.' 

Of  such  proud  huntings  main  tales 
Yet  linger  in  our  lonely  <!. 
Up  pathless  Ettrick  and  00  Yarrow, 
Where  erst  the  outlaw  drew  his  ait 
But  not  more  blithe  that  s\lvan  court. 
Than  we  have  been  at  humbler  sport  ; 
Though  small  our  pomp  and  mean  our  game, 
Our  mirth,  dear  Marriot.  was  the  same. 
Remember'st  thou  my  greyhounds  true  ? 
O'er  holt  or  hill  there  never  ti 
From  slip  or  leash  t:  I  Sprang, 

More  fleet  of  foot  or  sun  <»t  tang. 
Nor  dull,  between  each  merry  chai 
Passed  by  the  intermitted  spa 
For  we  had  fair  resource  in  st 
In  Classic  and  in  Gothic  lore  : 
We  marked  each  memorable  scene, 
And  held  poetic  talk  between  \ 
Nor  hill,  nor  brook,  ur  paced  along, 
But  had  its  legend  or  its  song. 
All  silent  now  —  for  now  are  still 
Thy  bowers,  untenanted  Bowhill  ! 
No  longer  from  thy  mountains  dun 
The  yeoman  hears  the  well-known  gun, 
And  while  his  honest  heart  glows  warm 
At  thought  of  his  paternal  farm, 
Round  to  his  mates  a  brimmer  fills. 
And  drinks,  'The  Chieftain  of  the  I  Fills  I ' 
No  fairy  forms,  in  Yarrow  "s  bowers. 
Trip  o'er  the  walks  or  tend  the  flowers. 
Fair  as  the  elves  whom  Janet  saw 
By  moonlight  dance  on  Carterhaugh  : 
No  youthful  Baron  's  left  to  grace 
The  Forest-Sheriff's  lonely  chace, 
And  ape,  in  manly  step  and  tone, 
The  majesty  of  Oberon  : 
And  she  is  gone  whose  lovely  face 
Is  but  her  least  and  lowest  grace  ; 
Though  if  to  Sylphid  Queen  't  were  given 
To  show  our  earth  the  charms  of  heaven, 
She  could  not  glide  along  the  air 
With  form  more  light  or  face  more  fair. 
No  more  the  widow's  deafened  ear 
Grows  quick  that  lady's  step  to  hear  : 
At  noontide  she  expects  her  not, 
Nor  busies  her  to  trim  the  cot ; 
Pensive  she  turns  her  humming  wheel, 
Or  pensive  cooks  her  orphans'  meal, 


MARMION. 


75 


Yet  blesses,  ere  she  deals  their  bread, 
The  gentle  hand  by  which  they  're  fed. 

From  Yair   -  which  hills  so  closely  bind, 
Scarce  can  the  Tweed  his  passage  find, 
Though  much  he  fret,  and  chafe,  and  toil, 
Till  all  his  eddying  currents  boil  — 
Her  long-descended  lord  is  gone, 
And  left  us  by  the  stream  alone. 
And  much  I  miss  those  sportive  boys, 
Companions  of  my  mountain  joys, 
Just  at  the  age  'twixt  boy  and  youth, 
When  thought  is  speech,  and  speech  is  truth. 
Close  to  my  side  with  what  delight 
They  pressed  to  hear  of  Wallace  wight, 
When,  pointing  to  his  airy  mound, 
I  called  his  ramparts  holy  ground  ! 
Kindled  their  brows  to  hear  me  speak; 
And  I  have  smiled,  to  feel  my  cheek, 
I  'spite  the  difference  of  our  years, 
Return  again  the  glow  of  theirs. 
Ah.  happv  boys  !  such  feelings  pure, 
They  will  not,  cannot  long  endure; 

demned  to  stem  the  world's  rude  tide, 
You  may  not  linger  by  the  side ; 
.For  Fate  shall  thrust  you  from  the  shore 
And  Passion  ply  the  sail  and  oar. 
Yet  cherish  the  remembrance  still 
Of  the  lone  mountain  and  the  rill ; 

trust,  dear  boys,  the  time  will  come, 
When  fiercer  transport  shall  be  dumb, 

i  you  will  think  right  frequently, 
But,  well  I  hope,  without  a  sigh, 
( )n  tin-  free  hours  that  we  have  spent 
Together  on  the  brown  hill's  bent 


When,  musing  on  companions  gone. 
We  doubly  feel  ourselves  alone, 
Something,  my  friend,  we  yet  may  gain  ; 
There  is  a  pleasure  in  this  pain: 
It  soothes  the  love  of  lonely  rest, 
Deep  in  each  gentler  heart  impressed. 

dent  amid  worldly  toils, 
And  stifled  soon  by  mental  broils; 
Hut.  in  a  bosom  thus  prepared, 
Its  still  small  voice  is  often  heard, 
Whispering  a  mingled  sentiment 
'Twixt  resignation  and  content. 
Oft  in  my  mind  such  thoughts  awake 
by  lone  Saint  Mary's  silent  lake  : 
Thou  know'st  it  well,  —  nor  fen  nor  sedge 
Pollute  the  pure  lake's  crystal  edge; 
Abrupt  and  sheer,  the  mountains  sink 
At  once  upon  the  level  brink, 
And  just  a  trace  of  silver  sand 
Marks  where  the  water  meets  the  land. 
Far  in  the  mirror,  bright  and  blue, 
Each  hill's  huge  outline  you  may  view  : 
Shaggy  with  heath,  but  lonely  bare, 


Nor  tree,  nor  bush,  nor  brake  is  there, 
Save  where  of  land  yon  slender  line 
Bears  thwart  the  lake  the  scattered  pine. 
Yet  even  this  nakedness  has  power, 
And  aids  the  feeling  of  the  hour : 
Nor  thicket,  dell,  nor  copse  you  spy, 
Where  living  thing  concealed  might  lie  ; 
Nor  point  retiring  hides  a  dell 
Where  swain  or  woodman  lone  might  dwell- 
There  's  nothing  left  to  fancy's  guess, 
You  see  that  all  is  loneliness  : 
And  silence  aids  —  though  the  steep  hills 
Send  to  the  lake  a  thousand  rills ; 
In  summer  tide  so  soft  they  weep, 
The  sound  but  lulls  the  ear  asleep  ; 
Your  horse's  hoof-tread  sounds  too  rude, 
So  stilly  is  the  solitude. 

Nought  living  meets  the  eye  or  ear, 
But  well  I  ween  the  dead  are  near ; 
For  though,  in  feudal  strife,  a  foe 
Hath  laid  Our  Lady's  chapel  low, 
Yet  still,  beneath  the  hallowed  soil, 
The  peasant  rests  him  from  his  toil, 
And  dying  bids  his  bones  be  laid 
Where  erst  his  simple  fathers  prayed. 

If  age  had  tamed  the  passions'  strife, 
And  fate  had  cut  my  ties  to  life, 
Here  have  I  thought 't  were  sweet  to  dwell, 
And  rear  again  the  chaplain's  cell, 
Like  that  same  peaceful  hermitage, 
Where  Milton  longed  to  spend  his  age. 
'T  were  sweet  to  mark  the  setting  day 
On  Bourhope's  lonely  top  decay, 
And,  as  it  faint  and  feeble  died 
On  the  broad  lake  and  mountain's  side. 
To  say,  *  Thus  pleasures  fade  away  ; 
Youth,  talents,  beauty,  thus  decay, 
And  leave  us  dark,  forlorn,  and  gray  ; ' 
Then  gaze  on  Dryhope's  ruined  tower, 
And  think  on  Yarrow's  faded  Flower  ; 
And  when  that  mountain-sound  I  heard, 
Which  bids  us  be  for  storm  prepared, 
The  distant  rustling  of  his  wings, 
As  up  his  force  the  Tempest  brings, 
'T  were  sweet,  ere  yet  his  terrors  rave, 
To  sit  upon  the  Wizard's  grave, 
That  Wizard  Priest's  whose  bones  are  thrust 
From  company  of  holy  dust ; 
On  which  no  sunbeam  ever  shines  — 
So  superstition's  creed  divines  — 
Thence  view  the  lake  with  sullen  roar 
Heave  her  broad  billows  to  the  shore  ; 
And  mark  the  wild-swans  mount  the  gale, 
Spread  wide  through  mist  their  snowy  sail, 
And  ever  stoop  again,  to  lave 
Their  bosoms  on  the  surging  wave  ; 
Then,  when  against  the  driving  hail 


76 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL    WORKS. 


No  longer  might  my  plaid  avail. 
Back  to  my  lonely  home  retire, 
And  light  my  lamp  and  trim  my  fire  ; 
There  ponder  o'er  some  mystic  lay, 
Till  the  wild  tale  had  all  its  sway. 
And,  in  the  bittern's  distant  shriek. 
I  heard  unearthly  voices  speak. 
And  thought  the  Wizard  Priest  was  come- 
To  claim  again  his  ancient  home  ! 
And  bade  my  busy  fancy  range, 
To  frame  him  fitting  shape  and  strange, 
Till  from  the  task  my  brow  I  cleared, 
And  smiled  to  think  that  I  had  feared. 

But   chief   'twere    sweet   to  think  such 
life  — 
Though  but  escape  from  fortune's  strife  — 
Something  most  matchless  good  and  wise, 
A  great  and  grateful  sacrifice, 
And  deem  each  hour  to  musing  given 
A  step  upon  the  road  to  heaven. 

Yet  him  whose  heart  is  ill  at  ease 
Such  peaceful  solitudes  displease  ; 
He  loves  to  drown  his  bosom's  jar 
Amid  the  elemental  war  : 
And  my  black  Palmer's  choice  had  been 
Some  ruder  and  more  savage  scene, 
Like  that  which  frowns  round  dark  Loch- 

skene. 
There  eagles  scream  from  isle  to  shore ; 
I  town  all  the  rocks  the  torrents  roar ; 
O'er  the  black  waves  incessant  driven, 
Dark  mists  infect  the  summer  heaven  : 
Through  the  rude  barriers  of  the  lake, 
Away  its  hurrying  waters  break, 
Faster  and  whiter  dash  and  curl, 
Till  down  yon  dark  abyss  they  hurl. 
Rises  the  fog-smoke  white  as  snow. 
Thunders  the  viewless  stream  below, 
Diving,  as  if  condemned  to  lave 
Some  demon's  subterranean  cave, 
Who,  prisoned  by  enchanter's  spell, 
Shakes  the  dark  rock  with  groan  and  yell. 
And  well  that  Palmer's  form  and  mien 
Had  suited  with  the  stormy  scene, 
Just  on  the  edge,  straining  his  ken 
To  view  the  bottom  of  the  den, 
Where,  deep  deep  down,  and  far  within, 
Toils  with  the  rocks  the  roaring  linn  : 
Then,  issuing  forth  one  foamy  wave, 
And  wheeling  round  the  Giant's  Grave, 
White  as  the  snowy  charger's  tail, 
Drives  down  the  pass  of  Moffatdale. 

Marriot,  thy  harp,  on  I  sis  strung, 
To  many  a  Border  theme  has  rung : 
Then  list  to  me,  and  thou  shalt  know 
Of  this  mysterious  Man  of  Woe. 


XU  arm  io  it- 


canto    SECOND. 


The  breeze  which  l)  the  imoke 

Round  Norluim  Castle  roUi 

When  all  the  loud  artillery  spoke 

With  lightning-Hash  and  thunder-stroke, 

As  Marmion  left  the  hold,  — 
It  curled  not  Tweed  alone,  that  breeze, 
For,  far  upon  Northumbrian  * 

It  freshly  blew  and  ttTOOg, 
Where,  from  high  Whitby's  cloistered  pile 
Bound  to  Saint  Cuthberfs  Holy  I 

It  bore  a  bark  along. 
Upon  the  gale  she  stooped  her  side, 
And  bounded  o'er  the  swelling  tide. 

As  she  were  dancing  home  ; 
The  merry  seamen  laughed  to  see 
Their  gallant  ship  so  lustily 

Furrow  the  green  sea-foam. 
Much  joyed  they  in  their  honored  freight ; 
For  on  the  deck,  in  chair  of  state, 
The  Abbess  of  Saint  Hilda  placed, 
With  five  fair  nuns,  the  galley  graced. 


ii. 

'T  was  sweet  to  see  these  holy  maids, 
Like  birds  escaped  to  greenwood  shades, 

Their  first  flight  from  the  cage, 
How  timid,  and  how  curious  too, 
For  all  to  them  was  strange  and  new, 
And  all  the  common  sights  they  view 

Their  wonderment  engage. 
One  eyed  the  shrouds  and  swelling  sail, 

With  many  a  benedicite  ; 
One  at  the  rippling  surge  grew  pale, 

And  would  for  terror  pray, 
Then  shrieked  because  the  sea-dog  nigh 
His  round  black  head  and  sparkling  eye 

Reared  o'er  the  foaming  spray  ; 


MARM10N. 


77 


And  one  would  still  adjust  her  veil. 
Disordered  by  the  summer  gale, 
Perchance  lest  some  more  worldly  eye 
Her  dedicated  charms  might  spy, 
Perchance  because  such  action  graced 
Her  fair-turned  arm  and  slender  waist. 
Light  was  each  simple  bosom  there, 
Save  two,  who  ill  mi^ht  pleasure  share, 
The  Abbess  and  the  Novice  Clare. 


in. 

The  Abbesa  was  of  noble  blood, 
r.nt  early  took  the  veil  and  hood, 
Ere  upon  life  she  cast  a  look, 
( >r  km  w  the  world  that  she  forsook. 
I  air  too  she  was,  and  kind  had  been 
As  she  was  fair,  but  ne'er  had  seen 
Fee  her  a  timid  lover  sigh. 
Nor  knew  the  influence  of  her  eye. 
Love  to  her  ear  was  but  a  name. 
Combined  with  vanity  and  shame  : 
Her  hopes,  her  fears,  her  joys,  were  all 
Bounded  within  the  cloister  wall; 
The  deadliest  sin  her  mind  could  reach 
Was  of  monastic  rule  the  breach. 
And  her  ambition's  highest  aim 
To  emulate  Saint  Hilda's  fame. 
For  this  she  gave  her  ample  dower 
To  raise  the  convent's  eastern  tower  ; 
For  this,  with  carving  rare  and  quaint, 
She  decked  the  chapel  of  the  saint. 


And  gave  the  relic-shrine  of  cost, 
With  ivory  and  gems  embossed. 
The  poor  her  convent's  bounty  blest, 
The  pilgrim  in  its  halls  found  rest. 


Black  was  her  garb,  her  rigid  rule 
Reformed  on  Benedictine  school ; 
Her  cheek  was  pale,  her  form  was  spare; 
Vigils  and  penitence  austere 
Had  early  quenched  the  light  of  youth  : 
But  gentle  was  the  dame,  in  sooth  ; 
Though,  vain  of  her  religious  sway, 
She  loved  to  see  her  maids  obey, 
Yet  nothing  stern  was  she  in  cell, 
And  the  nuns  loved  their  Abbess  well. 
Sad  was  this  voyage  to  the  dame  ; 
Summoned  to  Lindisfarne,  she  came, 
There,  with  Saint  Cuthbert's  Abbot  old 
And  Tynemouth's  Prioress,  to  hold 
A  chapter  of  Saint  Benedict, 
For  inquisition  stern  and  strict 
On  two  apostates  from  the  faith, 
And,  if  need  were,  to  doom  to  death. 

v. 

Nought  say  I  here  of  Sister  Clare, 
Save  this,  that  she  was  young  and  fair ; 
As  yet  a  novice  unprofessed, 
Lovely  and  gentle,  but  distressed. 
She  was  betrothed  to  one  now  dead, 


78 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL   WORKS. 


Or  worse,  who  had  dishonored  fled, 
Her  kinsmen  bade  her  give  her  hand 
To  one  who  loved  her  for  her  land  ; 
Herself,  almost  heart-broken  now. 
Was  bent  to  take  the  vestal  vow, 
And  shroud  within  Saint  Hilda's  gloom 
Her  blasted  hopes  and  withered  bloom. 

VI. 

She  sate  upon  the  galley's  prow, 
And  seemed  to  mark  the  waves  below ; 
Nay,  seemed,  so  fixed  her  look  and  eye 
To  count  them  as  they  glided  by. 
She  saw  them  not  —  't  was  seeming  all  — 
Far  other  scene  her  thoughts  recall,  — 
A  sun-scorched  desert,  waste  and  bare. 
Nor  waves  nor  breezes  murmured  there : 
There  saw  she  where  some  careless  hand 
O'er  a  dead  corpse  had  heaped  the  sand, 
To  hide  it  till  the  jackals  come 
To  tear  it  from  the  scanty  tomb.  — 
.  See  what  a  woful  look  was  given, 
As  she  raised  up  her  eyes  to  heaven  ! 

vn. 
Lovely,  and  gentle,  and  distressed  — 
These    charms    might    tame    the    fiercest 

breast : 
Harpers  have  sung  and  poets  told 
That  he,  in  fury  uncontrolled, 
The  shaggy  monarch  of  the  wood, 
Before  a  virgin,  fair  and  good, 
Hath  pacified  his  savage  mood. 
But  passions  in  the  human  frame 
Oft  put  the  lion's  rage  to  shame  : 
And  jealousy,  by  dark  intrigue, 
With  sordid  avarice  in  league. 
Had  practised  with  their  bowl  and  knife 
Against  the  mourner's  harmless  life. 
This  crime  was  charged  'gainst  those  who 

lay 
Prisoned  in  Cuthbert's  islet  gray. 

VIII. 

And  now  the  vessel  skirts  the  strand 

Of  mountainous  Northumberland  : 

Towns,  towers,  and  halls  successive  rise, 

And  catch  the  nuns'  delighted  eyes. 

Monk-Wearmouth  soon  behind  them  lay. 

And  Tynemoutlrs  priory  and  bay  : 

They  marked  amid  her  trees  the  hall 

Of  lofty  Seaton-Delaval : 

They  saw  the  Blythe  and  Wansbeck  floods 

Rush  to  the  sea  through  sounding  woods  : 

They  passed  the  tower  of  Widderington, 

Mt>ther  of  many  a  valiant  son  ; 

At  Coquet-isle  their  beads  they  tell 

To  the  good  saint  who  owned  the  cell; 

Then  did  the  Alne  attention  claim, 

And  Warkworth,  proud  of  Percy's  name ; 


And  next  they  crossed  themselves  to  hear 
The  whitening  breakers  sound  bo  near, 

Where,  boiling  through  tin-  rocks,  thej  nur 

On  Dunstanborongh's  caverned  bin 

Thy    tower,   proud     Bamborough,    marked 

thev  there, 
King  Ida's  castle,  huge  and  square. 
From  its  tall  rock  look  grimly  down. 
And  on  the  swelling  ocean  frown  ; 
Then  from  the  mast  they  bore  away, 
And  reached  the  Holy  Island's  bay. 


The  tide  did  now  its  flood-mark  gain. 

And  girdled  in  the  Saint's  domain  : 

For,  with  the  flow  and  ebb.  its  style 

Varies  from  continent  to  isle  : 

Dry  shod,  o'er  sands,  twice  everv  day 

The  pilgrims  to  the  shrine  find  u'a\  : 

Twice  every  day  the  wa\ 

Of  staves  and  sandalled  feet  the  I 

As  to  the  poll  the  galley  tlew. 

Higher  and  higher  rose  to  view 

The  castle  with  its  battled  walls. 

The  ancient  monastery'!  halls. 

A  solemn,  huge,  and  dark-red  pile, 
Placed  on  the  margin  of  the  isle. 


In  Saxon  strength  that  abbey  frowned. 
With  mas-  -  broad  and  round. 

That  rose  alternate,  row  and  row. 

On  ponderous  columns,  short  and  low. 
Built  ere  the  art  was  known. 

B\  pointed  aisle  and  shafted  stalk 

The  arcades  of  an  alleyed  walk 
To  emulate  in  stone. 
On  the  deep  walls  the  heathen  Dane 
Had  poured  his  impious  rage  in  vain  : 
And  needful  was  such  strength  to  t! 
Exposed  to  the  tempest \i> 
Scourged  by  the  winds'  eternal  sway. 
Open  to  rovers  fierce  as  they. 
Which   could  twelve  hundred    years   with- 
stand 
Winds,  waves,  and  northern  pirates'  hand. 
Not  but  that  portions  of  the  pile, 
Rebuilded  in  a  later  style. 
Showed  where  the  spoiler's  hand  had  been  ; 
Not  but  the  wasting  sea-breeze  keen 
Had  worn  the  pillar's  carving  quaint. 
And  mouldered  in  his  niche  the  saint. 
And  rounded  with  consuming  power 
The  pointed  angles  of  each  tower : 
Yet  still  entire  the  abbey  stood, 
Like  veteran,  worn,  but  unsubdued. 

XI. 

Soon  as  they  neared  his  turrets  strong. 
The  maidens  raised  Saint  Hilda's  song, 


M ARM  I  ON. 


79 


And  with  the  sea-wave  and  the  wind 
Their  voices,  sweetly  shrill,  combined, 

And  made  harmonious  close ; 
Then,  answering  from  the  sandy  shore, 
Half-drowned  amid  the  breakers'  roar, 

According  chorus  rose : 


Down  to  the  haven  of  the  Isle 
The  monks  and  nuns  in  order  file 
From  Cuthbert's  cloisters  grim  ; 
Banner,  and  cross,  and  relics  there, 
To  meet  Saint  Hilda's  maids,  they  bare; 
And,  as  they  caught  the  sounds  on  air, 


So 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL   WORKS. 


They  echoed  back  the  hymn. 
The  islanders  in  joyous  mood 
Rushed  emulously  through  the  flood 

To  hale  the  bark  to  land ; 
Conspicuous  by  her  veil  and  hood, 
Signing  the  cross,  the  Abbess  stood. 

And  blessed  them  with  her  hand. 

XII. 

Suppose  we  now  the  welcome  said, 
Suppose  the  convent  banquet  made  : 

All  through  the  holy  dome, 
Through  cloister,  aisle,  and  gallery, 
Wherever  vestal  maid  might  pry, 
Nor  risk  to  meet  unhallowed  eye, 

The  stranger  sisters  roam  ; 
Till  fell  the  evening  damp  with  dew, 
And  the  sharp  sea-breeze  coldly  blew, 
For  there  even  summer  night  is  chill. 
Then,  having  strayed  and  gazed  their  fill, 

They  closed  around  the  fire  ; 
And  all,  in  turn,  essayed  to  paint 
The  rival  merits  of  their  saint, 

A  theme  that  ne'er  can  tire 
A  holy  maid,  for  be  it  known 
That  their  saint's  honor  is  their  own. 

XIII. 

Then  Whitby's  nuns  exulting  told 
How  to  their  house  three  barons  bold 

Must  menial  service  do, 
While  horns  blow  out  a  note  of  shame, 
And  monks  cry,  '  Fie  upon  your  name  ! 
In  wrath,  for  loss  of  sylvan  game, 

Saint  Hilda's  priest  ye  slew.'  — 
'  This,  on  Ascension-day,  each  year 
While  laboring  on  our  harbor-pier, 
Must  Herbert,  Bruce,  and  Percy  hear.'  — 
They  told  how  in  their  convent-cell 
A  Saxon  princess  once  did  dwell, 

The  lovely  Edelfled ; 
And  how,  of  thousand  snakes,  each  one 
Was  changed  into  a  coil  of  stone 

When  holy  Hilda  prayed  : 
Themselves,  within  their  holy  bound, 
Their  stony  folds  had  often  found. 


They  told  how  sea-fowls*  pinions  fail, 
As  over  Whitby's  towers  they  sail. 
And,  sinking  down,  with  fluttering*  faint. 
They  do  their  homage  to  the  saint. 

XIV. 

Nor  did  Saint  Cuthbert's  daughters  fail 
To  vie  with  these  in  holy  talc  ; 
His  body's  resting-place,  of  old. 
How  oft  their  patron  changed,  they  told  ; 
How,  when  the  rude  Dane  burned  their  pile, 
The  monks  fled  forth  from  Holy  Isle  : 
O'er  Northern  mountain,  marsh,  and  moor. 
From  sea  to  sea,  from  shore  to  shore, 
Seven  years  Saint  Cuthbert's  corpse  they 
bore. 

They  rested  them  in  fair  Meln 

But  though,  alive,  he  loved  it  well. 

Not  there  his  relics  might  repo- 
For,  wondrous  tale  to  tell  I 

In  his  stone  coffin  forth  he  rides. 

A  ponderous  bark  for  river  tides, 

Yet  light  as  gossamer  it  glides 
Downward  to  Tilmouth  cell. 
Nor  long  was  his  abiding  there 
For  southward  did  the  saint  repair  -. 
Chester-le-Street  and  Ripon  saw 
His  holy  corpse  ere  Wardilaw 

Hailed  him  with  joy  and  fear  ; 
And,  after  many  wanderings  past. 
He  chose  his  lordly  seat  at  last 
Where  his  cathedral,  huge  and  vast. 

Looks  down  upon  the  Wear. 
There,  deep  in  Durham's  Gothic  shade, 
His  relics  are  in  secret  laid  ; 

But  none  may  know  the  place, 
Save  of  his  holiest  servants  three. 
Deep  sworn  to  solemn  secrecy, 

Who  share  that  wondrous  grace. 

xv. 
Who  may  his  miracles  declare  ? 
Even  Scotland's  dauntless  king  and  heir  — 

Although  with  them  they  led 
Galwegians,  wild  as  ocean's  gale, 
And  Loden's  knights,  all  sheathed  in  mail, 


MARMION. 


Si 


And  the  bold  men  of  Teviotdale  — 

Before  his  standard  fled. 
'T  was  he,  to  vindicate  his  reign, 
Edged  Alfred's  falchion  on  the  Dane, 
And  turned  the  Conqueror  back  again, 
When,  with  his  Norman  bowyer  band, 
He  came  to  waste  Northumberland. 

xvi. 
But  fain  Saint  Hilda's  nuns  would  learn 
If  on  a  rock,  by  Lindisfarne, 
Saint  Cuthbert  sits,  and  toils  to  frame 
The  sea-born  beads  that  bear  his  name  : 
Such  tales  had  Whitby's  fishers  told, 
And  said  they  might  his  shape  behold, 

And  hear  his  anvil  sound  : 
A  deadened  clang,  —  a  huge  dim  form, 
Seen  but,  and  heard,  when  gathering  storm 

And  night  were  closing  round. 
But  this,  as  tale  of  idle  fame, 
The  nuns  of  Lindisfarne  disclaim. 

xvn. 
While  round  the  fire  such  legends  go, 
Far  different  was  the  scene  of  woe 
Where,  in  a  secret  aisle  beneath, 
Council  was  held  of  life  and  death. 
It  was  more  dark  and  lone,  that  vault, 

Than  the  worst  dungeon  cell : 
Old  Colwulf  built  it,  for  his  faul* 
In  penitence  to  dwell. 


When  he  for  cowl  and  beads  laid  down 
The  Saxon  battle-axe  and  crown. 
This  den,  which,  chilling  every  sense 

Of  feeling,  hearing,  sight, 
Was  called  the  Vault  of  Penitence, 

Excluding  air  and  light, 
Was  by  the  prelate  Sexhelm  made 
A  place  of  burial  for  such  dead 
As,  having  died  in  mortal  sin, 
Might  not  be  laid  the  church  within. 
'T  was  now  a  place  of  punishment ; 
Whence  if  so  loud  a  shriek  were  sent 

As  reached  the  upper  air, 
The  hearers  blessed  themselves,  and  said 
The  spirits  of  the  sinful  dead 

Bemoaned  their  torments  there. 

XVIII. 

But  though,  in  the  monastic  pile. 
Did  of  this  penitential  aisle 

Some  vague  tradition  go, 
Few  only,  save  the  Abbot,  knew 
Where  the  place  lay,  and  still  more  few 
Were  those  who  had  from  him  the  clew 

To  that  dread  vault  to  go. 
Victim  and  executioner 
Were  blindfold  when  transported  there. 
In  low  dark  rounds  the  arches  hung, 
From  the  rude  rock  the  side-walls  sprung  ; 
The  gravestones,  rudely  sculptured  o'er. 
Half  sunk  in  earth,  by  time  half  wore, 


82 


SCOTT'S  POET/CAL    WORKS. 


Were  all  the  pavement  of  the  floor; 

The  mildew-drops  fell  one  by  one, 

With  tinkling  plash,  upon  the  stone. 

A  cresset,  in  an  iron  chain, 

Which  served  to  light  this  drear  domain, 

With  damp  and  darkness  seemed  to  strive, 

As  if  it  scarce  might  keep  alive  ; 

And  yet  it  dimly  served  to  show 

The  awful  conclave  met  below. 


XIX. 

There,  met  to  doom  in  secrecy, 

Were  placed  the  heads  of  convents  three, 

All  servants  of  Saint  Benedict, 

The  statutes  of  whose  order  strict 

On  iron  table  lay  ; 
In  long  black  dress,  on  seats  of  stone, 
Behind  were  these  three  judges  shown 

By  the  pale  cresset's  ray. 
The  Abbess  of  Saint  Hilda's  there 
Sat  for  a  space  with  visage  bare, 
Until,  to  hide  her  bosom's  swell, 
And  tear-drops  that  for  pity  fell, 

She  closely  drew  her  veil ; 
Yon  shrouded  figure,  as  I  guess, 
By  her  proud  mien  and  flowing  dress, 
Is  Tynemouth's  haughty  Prioress, 

And  she  with  awe  looks  pale ; 
And  he,  that  ancient  man,  whose  sight 
Has  long  been  quenched  by  age's  night, 
Upon  whose  wrinkled  brow  alone 
Nor  ruth  nor  mercy's  trace  is  shown, 

Whose  look  is  hard  and  stern,  — 
Saint  Cuthbert's  Abbot  is  his  style, 
For  sanctity  called  through  the  isle 

The  Saint  of  Lindisfarne. 


xx. 

Before  them  stood  a  guilty  pair  ; 
But,  though  an  equal  fate  they  share. 
Yet  one  alone  deserves  our  care. 
Her  sex  a  page's  dress  belied  ; 
The  cloak  and  doublet,  loosely  tied, 
Obscured  her  charms,  but  could  not  hide. 

Her  cap  down  o'er  her  face  she  drew ; 
And,  on  her  doublet  breast, 

She  tried  to  hide  the  badge  of  blue, 
Lord  Marmion's  falcon  crest. 
But,  at  the  prioress'  command, 
A  monk  undid  the  silken  band 

That  tied  her  tresses  fair, 
And  raised  the  bonnet  from  her  head, 
And  down  her  slender  form  they  spread 

In  ringlets  rich  and  rare. 
Constance  de  Beverley  they  know, 
Sister  professed  of  Fontevraud, 
Whom  the  Church  numbered  with  the  dead, 
For  broken  vows  and  convent  fled. 


XXL 

When  thus  her  face  was  given  to  view,  — 

Although  so  pallid  was  her  hue. 

It  did  a  ghastly  contrast  bear 

To  those  bright  ringlets  glistering  fair.  — 

Her  look  composed,  and  steady  eye, 

Bespoke  a  matchless  constanc  v  : 

And  there  she  stood  so  calm  and  pale 

That,  but  her  breathing  did  not  fail. 

And  motion  slight  of  eye  and  head, 

And  of  her  bosom,  warranted 

That  neither  sense  nor  pulse  she  lacks. 

You  might  have  thought  a  form  of  wax. 

Wrought  to  the  very  life,  was  there: 

So  still  she  was.  so  pale,  so  fair. 

XXII. 

Her  comrade  was  a  sordid  soul. 

Such  as  does  murder  for  a  nurd  ; 
Who,  but  of  fear,  knows  no  control, 
Because  his  conscience,  seared  and  foul. 

Feels  not  the  import  of  his  ilwd  : 
One  whose  brute-feeling  ne'er  aspires 
Beyond  his  own  snore  brute  desires. 
Such  tools  the  Tempter  ever  needs 
To  do  the  savagest  of  deeds ; 
For  them  no  visioned  terrors  daunt, 
Their  nights  no  fancied  spectres  haunt  ; 
One  fear  with  them,  of  all  most  base, 
The  fear  of  death,  alone  finds  place. 
This  wretch  was  clad  in  frock  and  cowl, 
And  shamed  not  loud  to  moan  and  howl, 
His  body  on  the  floor  to  clash. 
And  crouch,  like  hound  beneath  the  lash  : 
While  his  mute  partner,  standing  near, 
Waited  her  doom  without  a  tear. 

XXIII. 

Yet  well  the  luckless  wretch  might  shriek, 
Well  might  her  paleness  terror  speak  ! 
For  there  were  seen  in  that  dark  wall 
Two  niches,  narrow,  deep,  and  tall ;  — 
Who  enters  at  such  grisly  door 
Shall  ne'er,  I  ween,  find  exit  more. 
In  each  a  slender  meal  was  laid, 
Of  roots,  of  water,  and  of  bread  ; 
By  each,  in  Benedictine  dress, 
Two  haggard  monks  stood  motionless, 
Who,  holding  high  a  blazing  torch, 
Showed  the  grim  entrance  of  the  porch  : 
Reflecting  back  the  smoky  beam, 
The  dark-red  walls  and  arches  gleam. 
Hewn  stones  and  cement  were  displayed. 
And  building  tools  in  order  laid. 

XXIV. 

These  executioners  were  chose 

As  men  who  were  with  mankind  foes, 

And,  with  despite  and  envy  fired, 


MARMION. 


83 


Into  the  cloister  had  retired, 

Or  who,  in  desperate  doubt  of  grace, 
Strove  by  deep  penance  to  efface 

Of  some  foul  crime  the  stain  ; 
For,  as  the  vassals  of  her  will, 


Such  men  the  Church  selected  still 
As  either  joyed  in  doing  ill, 
Or  thought  more  grace  to  gain 
If  in  her  cause  they  wrestled  down 
Feelings  their  nature  strove  to  own.    I 


84 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL    WORK'S. 


By  strange  device  were  they  brought  there. 
They  knew  not  how,  and  knew  not  where. 

XXV. 

And  now  that  blind  old  abbot  rose, 

To  speak  the  Chapter's  doom 
On  those  the  wall  was  to  enclose 

Alive  within  the  tomb, 
But  stopped  because  that  woful  maid, 
Gathering  her  powers,  to  speak  essayed; 
Twice  she  essayed,  and  twice  in  vain, 
Her  accents  might  no  utterance  gain  ; 
Nought  but  imperfect  murmurs  slip 
From  her  convulsed  and  quivering  lip  : 

'Twixt  each  attempt  all  was  so  still. 

You  seemed  to  hear  a  distant  rill  — 
'T  was  ocean's  swells  and  falls  ; 

For  though  this  vault  of  sin  and  fear 

Was  to  the  sounding  surge  so  near, 

A  tempest  there  you  scarce  could  hear, 
So  massive  were  the  walls. 

XXVI. 

At  length,  an  effort  sent  apart 

The  blood  that  curdled  to  her  heart, 

And  light  came  to  her  eye, 
And  color  dawned  upon  her  cheek, 
A  hectic  and  a  fluttered  streak, 
Like  that  left  on  the  Cheviot  peak- 
By  Autumn's  stormy  sky ; 
And  when  her  silence  broke  at  length, 
Still  as  she  spoke  she  gathered  strength, 

And  armed  herself  to  bear. 
It  was  a  fearful  sight  to  see 
Such  high  resolve  and  constancy 
In  form  so  soft  and  fair. 

XXVII. 

4  I  speak  not  to  implore  your  grace, 
Well  know  I  for  one  minute's  space 

Successless  might  1  sue  : 
Nor  do  I  speak  your  prayers  to  gain ; 
For  if  a  death  of  lingering  pain 
To  cleanse  my  sins  be  penance  vain, 

Vain  are  your  masses  too.  — 
I  listened  to  a  traitor's  tale, 
I  left  the  convent  and  the  veil ; 
For  three  long  years  I  bowed  my  pride. 
A  horse-boy  in  his  train  to  ride  ; 
And  well  my  folly's  meed  he  gave. 
Who  forfeited,  to  be  his  slave, 
All  here,  and  all  beyond  the  grave. 
He  saw  young  Clara's  face  more  fair, 
He  knew  her  of  broad  lands  the  heir, 
Forgot  his  vows,  his  faith  forswore, 
And  Constance  was  beloved  no  more. 

'T  is  an  old  tale,  and  often  told ; 
But  did  my  fate  and  wish  agree, 

Ne'er  had  been  read,  in  story  old, 


Of  maiden  true  betrayed  for  gold, 
That  loved,  or  was  avenged,  like  me  I 

XXVIII. 

1  The  king  approved  his  favorite's  aim  : 
In  vain  a  rival  barred  his  claim, 

Whose  fate  with/Clare's  was  plight, 
For  he  attaints  that  rival's  fame 
With  treason's  charge  —  and  on  they  came 

In  mortal  lists  to  fight 
Their  oaths  are  said, 
Their  prayers  are  prayed, 
Their  lances  in  the  rest  are  laid. 

They  meet  in  mortal  shock ; 
And  hark !  the  throng,  with  thundering  cry, 
Shout  "  Marmion.  Marmion!  to  the  Bky, 

De  Wilton  to  the  block 
Say,  ye  who  preach  Heaven  shall  d< 
When  in  the  lists  two  champions  ride. 

Say,  was  Heaven's  justice  here? 
When,  loyal  in  his  love  and  faith. 
Wilton  found  overthrow  or  death 

Beneath  a  traitor's  spear  ? 
How  false  the  charge,  how  true  he  tell. 
This  guilty  packet  best  can  tell.' 
Then  drew  a  packet  from  her  breast, 
Paused,  gathered  voice,  and  spoke  the  rest. 

XXIX. 

'  Still  was  false  Marmion's  bridal  stayed ; 
To  Whitby's  convent  fled  the  maid, 

The  hated  match  to  shun. 
"  Ho  !  shifts  she  thus  ?  "  King  Henry  cried. 
"  Sir  Marmion,  she  shall  be  thy  bricfe, 

If  she  were  sworn  a  nun." 
One  way  remained  —  the  king's  command 
Sent  Marmion  to  the  Scottish  land ; 
I  lingered  here,  and  rescue  planned 

For  Clara  and  for  me  : 
This  caitiff  monk  for  gold  did  swear 
He  would  to  Whitby's  shrine  repair. 
And  by  his  drugs  my  rival  fair 

A  saint  in  heaven  should  be  ; 
But  ill  the  dastard  kept  his  oath, 
Whose  cowardice  hath  undone  us  both. 

XXX. 

'  And  now  my  tongue  the  secret  tells, 
Not  that  remorse  my  bosom  swells, 
But  to  assure  my  soul  that  none 
Shall  ever  wed  with  Marmion. 
Had  fortune  my  last  hope  betrayed, 
This  packet,  to  the  king  conveyed, 
Had  given  him  to  the  headsman's  stroke, 
Although  my  heart  that  instant  broke.  — 
Now,  men  of  death,  work  forth  your  will. 
For  I  can  suffer,  and  be  still ; 
And  come  he  slow,  or  come  he  fast, 
It  is  but  Death  who  comes  at  last. 


MARMION. 


85 


XXXI. 

1  Yet  dread  me  from  my  living:  tomb, 
Ye  vassal  slaves  of  bloody  Rome  ! 
If  Marmion's  late  remorse  should  wake, 
Full  soon  such  vengeance  will  he  take 
That  you  shall  wish  the  fiery  Dane 
Had  rather  been  your  guest  again. 
Behind,  a  darker  hour  ascends  ! 
The  altars  quake,  the  crosier  bends, 
The  ire  of  a  despotic  king 
Rides  forth  upon  destruction's  wing ; 
Then  shall  these  vaults,  so  strong  and  deep, 
Hurst  open  to  the  sea-winds'  sweep; 
Some  traveller  then  shall  find  my  bones 
Whitening  amid  disjointed  stones, 
And,  ignorant  of  priests'  cruelty, 
Marvel  such  relics  here  should  be.' 


XXXII. 

Fixed  was  her  look  and  stern  her  air : 
Back  from  her  shoulders  streamed  her  hair 
The  locks  that  wont  her  brow  to  shade 
Stared  up  erectly  from  her  head ; 
Her  figure  seemed  to  rise  more  high ; 
Her  voice  despair's  wild  energy 
Had  given  a  tone  of  prophecy. 
Appalled  the  astonished  conclave  sate ; 
With  stupid  eyes,  the  men  of  fate 
Gazed  on  the  light  inspired  form, 
And  listened  for  the  avenging  storm  ; 
The  judges  felt  the  victinrs  dread ; 
No  hand  was  moved,  no  word  was  said, 
Till  thus  the  abbot's  doom  was  given, 
Raising  his  sightless  balls  to  heaven : 
1  Sister,  let  thy  sorrows  cease ; 


Sinful  brother,  part  in  peace  ! ' 

From  that  dire  dungeon,  place  of  doom, 
Of  execution  too,  and  tomb, 

Paced  forth  the  judges  three  ;. 
Sorrow  it  were  and  shame  to  tell 
The  butcher-work  that  there  befell, 
When  they  had  glided  from  the  cell 
Of  sin  and  misery. 

XXXIII. 

An  hundred  winding  steps  convey 
That  conclave  to  the  upper  day  ; 
But  ere  they  breathed  the  fresher  air 
They  heard  the  shriekings  of  despair, 

And  many  a  stifled  groan. 
With  speed  their  upward  way  they  take,  — 
Such  speed  as  age  and  fear  can  make,  — 
And  crossed  themselves  for  terror's  sake, 

As  hurrying,  tottering  on, 
Even  in  the  vesper's  heavenly  tone 
They  seemed  to  hear  a  dying  groan, 
And  bade  the  passing  knell  to  toll 
For  welfare  of  a  parting  soul. 
Slow  o'er  the  midnight  wave  it  swung, 
Northumbrian  rocks  in  answer  rung  ; 
To  Warkworth  cell  the  echoes  rolled, 
His  beads  the  wakeful  hermit  told ; 
The  Bamborough  peasant  raised  his  head, 
But  slept  ere  half  a  prayer  he  said ; 
So  far  was  heard  the  mighty  knell, 
The  stag  sprung  up  on  Cheviot  Fell, 
Spread  his  broad  nostril  to  the  wind, 
Listed  before,  aside,  behind, 
Then  couched  him  down  beside  the  hind, 
And  quaked  among  the  mountain  fern, 
To  hear  that  sound  so  dull  and  stern. 


86 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL    WORKS. 


V'ii 


iUarmion. 


INTRODUCTION  TO   CANTO   THIRD. 
To    WILLIAM   ERSKINE,  ESQ. 

Ashcstiel,  Ettrick  Forest. 

Like  April  morning  clouds,  that  pass 
With  varying  shadow  o'er  the  grass, 
And  imitate  on  field  and  furrow 
Life's  checkered  scene  of  joy  and  sorrow  ; 
Like  streamlet  of  the  mountain  north, 
Now  in  a  torrent  racing  forth, 
Now  winding  slow  its  silver  train, 
And  almost  slumbering  on  the  plain  ; 
Like  breezes  of  the  autumn  day, 
Whose  voice  inconstant  dies  away, 
And  ever  swells  again  as  fast 
When  the  ear  deems  its  murmur  past ; 
Thus  various;  my  romantic  theme 
Flits,  winds,  or  sinks,  a  morning  dream. 
Yet  pleased,  our  eye  pursues  the  trace 
Of  Light  and  Shade's  inconstant  race  ; 
Pleased,  views  the  rivulet  afar, 
Weaving  its  maze  irregular  ; 
And  pleased,  we  listen  as  the  breeze 
Heaves  its  wild  sigh  through  Autumn  trees : 
Then,  wild  as  cloud,  or  stream,  or  gale, 
Flow  on,  flow  unconfined,  my  tale  ! 

Need  I  to  thee,  dear  Erskine,  tell 
I  love  the  license  all  too  well, 
In  sounds  now  lowly,  and  now  strong, 
To  raise  the  desultory  song? 
Oft,  when  mid  such  capricious  chime 
Some  transient  fit  of  loftier  rhyme 
To  thy  kind  judgment  seemed  excuse 
For  many  an  error  of  the  muse, 
Oft  hast  thou  said,  '  If,  still  misspent, 
Thine  hours  to  poetry  are  lent, 
Go,  and  to  tame  thy  wandering  course, 
Quaff  from  the  fountain  at  the  source  ; 
Approach  those  masters  o'er  whose  tomb 
Immortal  laurels  ever  bloom  : 
Instructive  of  the  feebler  bard, 
Still  from  the  grave  their  voice  is  heard ; 
From  them,  and  from  the  paths  they  showed, 


Choose  honored  guide  and  practised  road  : 
Nor  ramble  on  through  brake  and  maze. 
With  harpers  rude  of  barbarous  days. 

'Or  deem'st  thou  not  our  later  time- 
Yields  topic  meet  for  classic  rhyme  ? 
Hast  thou  no  elegiac  verse 
For  Brunswick's  venerable  hearse  ? 
What !  not  a  line,  a  tear,  a  sigh, 
When  valor  bleeds  for  liberty?  — 
Oh,  hero  of  that  glorious  time, 
When,  with  unrivalled  light  sublime,  — 
Though  martial  Austria,  and  though  all 
The  might  of  Russia,  and  the  Gaul, 
Though  banded  Europe  stood  her  foes  — 
The  star  of  Brandenburg  arose  ! 
Thou  couldst  not  live  to  see  her  beam 
Forever  quenched  in  Jena's  stream. 
Lamented  chief!  —  it  was  not  given 
To  thee  to  change  the  doom  of  Heaven. 
And  crush  that  dragon  in  its  birth, 
Predestined  scourge  of  guilty  earth. 
Lamented  chief  !  —  not  thine  the  power 
To  save  in  that  presumptuous  hour 
When  Prussia  hurried  to  the  field, 
And  snatched  the  spear,  but  left  the  shield  ! 
Valor  and  skill  't  was  thine  to  try, 
And,  tried  in  vain,  't  was  thine  to  die. 
Ill  had  it  seemed  thy  silver  hair 
The  last,  the  bitterest  pang  to  share, 
For  princedoms  reft,  and  scutcheons  riven, 
And  birthrights  to  usurpers  given  ; 
Thy  land's,  thy  children's  wrongs  to  feel 
And  witness  woes  thou  couldst  not  heal  ! 
On  thee  relenting  Heaven  bestows 
For  honored  life  an  honored  close ; 
And  when  revolves,  in  time's  sure  change, 
The  hour  of  Germany's  revenge, 
When,  breathing  fury  for  her  sake, 
Some  new  Arminius  shall  awake, 
Her  champion,  ere  he  strike,  shall  come 
To  whet  his  sword  on  Brunswick's  tomb. 

'  Or  of  the  Red-Cross  hero  teach, 
Dauntless  in  dungeon  as  on  breach. 
Alike  to  him  the  sea,  the  shore, 
The  brand,  the  bridle,  or  the  oar : 
Alike  to  him  the  war  that  calls 
Its  votaries  to  the  shattered  walls 
Which  the  grim  Turk,  besmeared  with  blood, 
Against  the  Invincible  made  good  ; 
Or  that  whose  thundering  voice  could  wake 
The  silence  of  the  polar  lake, 
When  stubborn  Russ  and  mettled  Swede 
On    the   warped    wave    their    death-game 

played ; 
Or  that  where  Vengeance  and  Affright 
Howled  round  the  father  of  the  fight, 
Who  snatched  on  Alexandria's  sand 
The  conqueror's  wreath  with  dying  hand. 


MARMION. 


87 


1  Or,  if  to  touch  such  chord  be  thine, 
Restore  the  ancient  tragic  line, 
And  emulate  the  notes  that  rung 
From  the  wild  harp  which  silent  hung 
By  silver  Avon's  holy  shore 
Till  twice  an  hundred  years  rolled  o'er; 
When  she,  the  bold  Enchantress,  came, 
With  fearless  hand  and  heart  on  flame, 
From  the  pale  willow  snatched  the  treasure, 
And  swept  it  with  a  kindred  measure, 
Till  Avon's  swans,  while  rung  the  grove 
With  Montfort's  hate  and  Basil's  love, 
Awakening  at  the  inspired  strain, 
Deemed  their  own  Shakespeare  lived  again.' 

Thy  friendship  thus  thy  judgment  wrong- 
ing 
With  praises  not  to  me  belonging, 
In  task  more  meet  for  mightiest  powers 
Wouldst  thou  engage  my  thriftless  hours. 
But  say*  my  Erskine,  hast  thou  weighed 
That  secret  power  by  all  obeyed, 
Which  warps  not  less  the  passive  mind, 
Its  source  concealed  or  undefined; 
Whether  an  impulse,  that  has  birth 
Soon  as  the  infant  wakes  on  earth, 
One  with  our  feelings  and  our  powers, 
And  rather  part  of  us  than  ours  ; 
Or  whether  fitlier  termed  the  sway 
Of  habit,  formed  in  early  day  ? 
Howe'er  derived,  its  force  confessed 
Rules  with  despotic  sway  the  breast, 
And  drags  us  on  by  viewless  chain, 
While  taste  and  reason  plead  in  vain. 
Look  east,  and  ask  the  Belgian  why, 
Beneath  Batavia's  sultry  sky, 
He  seeks  not  eager  to  inhale 
The  freshness  of  the  mountain  gale, 
Content  to  rear  his  whitened  wall 
Beside  the  dank  and  dull  canal  ? 
He'll  say,  from  youth  he  loved  to  see 
The  white  sail  gliding  by  the  tree. 
Or  see  yon  weather-beaten  hind, 
Whose  'sluggish  herds  before  him  wind, 
Whose  tattered  plaid  and  rugged  cheek 
His  northern  clime  and  kindred  speak; 
Through  England's  laughing  meads  he  goes, 
And  England's  wealth  around  him  flows ; 
Ask  if  it  would  content  him  well, 
At  ease  in  those  gay  plains  to  dwell, 
Where  hedge-rows  spread  a  verdant  screen, 
And  spires  and  forests  intervene, 
And  the  neat  cottage  peeps  between  ? 
No  !  not  for  these  will  he  exchange 
His  dark  Lochaber's  boundless  range, 
Not  for  fair  Devon's  meads  forsake 
Ben  Nevis  gray  and  Garry's  lake. 

Thus  while  I  ape  the  measure  wild 
Of  tales  that  charmed  me  yet  a  child, 
Rude  though  they  be,  still  with  the  chime 


Return  the  thoughts  of  early  time  ; 

And  feelings,  roused  in  life's  first  day, 

Glow  in  the  line  and  prompt  the  lay. 

Then  rise  those  crags,  that  mountain  tower, 

Which  charmed  my  fancy's  wakening  hour. 

Though  no  broad  river  swept  along, 

To  claim,  perchance,  heroic  song, 

Though  sighed  no  groves  in  summer  gale, 

To  prompt  of  love  a  softer  tale, 

Though  scarce  a  puny  streamlet's  speed 

Claimed  homage  from  a  shepherd's  reed, 

Yet  was  poetic  impulse  given 

By  the  green  hill  and  clear  blue  heaven. 

It  was  a  barren  scene  and  wild, 

WThere  naked  cliffs  were  rudely  piled, 

But  ever  and  anon  between 

Lay  velvet  tufts  of  loveliest  green ; 

And  well  the  lonely  infant  knew 

Recesses  where  the  wall-flower  grew, 

And  honeysuckle  loved  to  crawl 

Up  the  low  crag  and  ruined  wall. 

I  deemed  such  nooks  the  sweetest  shade 

The  sun  in  all  its  round  surveyed  ; 

And  still  I  thought  that  shattered  tower 

The  mightiest  work  of  human  power, 

And  marvelled  as  the  aged  hind 

With  some  strange  tale  bewitched  my  mind 

Of  forayers,  who  with  headlong  force 

Down  from  that  strength  had  spurred  their 

horse, 
Their  southern  rapine  to  renew 
Far  in  the  distant  Cheviots  blue, 
And,  home  returning,  filled  the  hall 
With  revel,  wassail-rout,  and  brawl. 
Methought  that  still  with  trump  and  clang 
The  gateway's  broken  arches  rang ; 
Methought  grim  features,  seamed  with  scars, 
Glared  through  the  window's  rusty  bars. 
And  ever,  by  the  winter  hearth, 
Old  tales  I  heard  of  woe  or  mirth, 
Of  lovers'  sleights,  of  ladies'  charms, 
Of  witches'  spells,  of  warriors'  arms  ; 
Of  patriot  battles,  won  of  old 
By  Wallace  wight  and  Bruce  the  bold  ; 
Of  later  fields  of  feud  and  fight, 
When,  pouring  from  their  Highland  height, 
The  Scottish  clans  in  headlong  sway 
Had  swept  the  scarlet  ranks  away. 
While  stretched  at  length  upon  the  floor. 
Again  I  fought  each  combat  o'er, 
Pebbles  and  shells,  in  order  laid, 
The  mimic  ranks  of  war  displayed  ; 
And  onward  still  the  Scottish  Lion  bore, 
And  still  the  scattered  Southron  fled  before. 

Still,  with  vain  fondness,  could  I  trace 
Anew  each  kind  familiar  face 
That  brightened  at  our  evening  fire  ! 
From  the  thatched  mansion's  gray-haired 

sire, 
Wise  without  learning,  plain  and  good, 


88 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL   WORKS. 


And  sprung  of  Scotland's  gentler  blood  ; 
Whose  eye  in  age,  quick,  clear,  and  keen, 
Showed  what  in  youth  its  glance  had  been  ; 
Whose  doom  discording  neighbors  sought, 
Content  with  equity  unbought ; 
To  him  the  venerable  priest, 
Our  frequent  and  familiar  guest, 
Whose  life  and  manners  well  could  paint 
Alike  the  student  and  the  saint, 
Alas  !  whose  speech  too  oft  I  broke 
With  gambol  rude  and  timeless  joke  : 
For  I  was  wayward,  bold,  and  wild, 
A  self-willed  imp,  a  grandame's  child, 
But  half  a  plague,  and  half  a  jest, 
Was  still  endured,  beloved,  caressed. 

From  me,  thus  nurtured,  dost  thou  ask 
The  classic  poet's  well-conned  task  ? 
Nay,  Erskine,  nay  —  on  the  wild  hill 
Let  the  wild  heath-bell  flourish  still  : 
Cherish  the  tulip,  prune  the  vine. 
But  freely  let  the  woodbine  twine, 
And  leave  untrimmed  the  eglantine  : 
Nay,  my  friend,  nay  —  since  oft  thy  praise 
Hath  given  fresh  vigor  to  my  lays, 
Since  oft  thy  judgment  could  refine 
My  flattened  thought  or  cumbrous  line, 
Still  kind,  as  is  thy  wont,  attend, 
And  in  the  minstrel  spare  the  friend. 
Though  wild  as  cloud,  as  stream,  as  gale, 
Flow  forth,  flow  unrestrained,  my  tale  ! 


iflarmion. 


CANTO  THIRD. 


THE   HOSTEL,    OR   INN. 


The  livelong  day  Lord  Marmion  rode  ; 
The  mountain  path  the  Palmer  showed 
By  glen  and  streamlet  winded  still, 
Where  stunted  birches  hid  the  rill. 
They  might  not  choose  the  lowland  road, 
For  the  Merse  forayers  were  abroad, 
Who,  fired  with  hate  and  thirst  of  prey, 


Had  scarcely  failed  to  bar  their  way. 

Oft  on  the  trampling  band  from  crown 

Of  some  tall  cliff  the  deer  looked  down  ; 

On  wing  of  jet  from  his  repose 

In  the  deep  heath  the  blackcock  rose ; 

Sprung  from  the  gone  the  timid  roe, 

Nor  waited  for  the  bending  bow  : 

And  when  the  stony  path  began 

By  which  the  naked  peak  they  wan. 

Up  flew  the  snowy  ptarmigan. 

The  noon  had  long  been  passed  before 

They  gained  the  height  oi  Lammermoor: 

Thence  winding  down  the  northern  way. 

Before  them  at  the  dose  of  day 

Old  Gifford's  towers  and  hamlet  lay. 


No  summons  calls  them  to  the  tower, 
To  spend  the  hospitable  hour. 
To  Scotland's  camp  the  lord  was  gone; 
His  cautious  dame,  in  bower  alone, 
Dreaded  her  castle  to  unclose, 
So  late,  to  unknown  friends  or  foes. 
On  through  the  hamlet  as  they  paced, 
Before  a  porch  whose  front  was  graced 
With  bush  and  flagon  trimly  placed, 

Lord  Marmion  drew  his  rein  : 
The    village   inn   seemed   large,   though 

rude ; 
Its  cheerful  fire  and  hearty  food 
Might  well  relieve  his  train. 
Down  from  their  seats  the  horsemen  sprung, 
With  jingling  spurs  the  court-yard  rung ; 
They  bind  their  horses  to  the  stall, 
For  forage,  food,  and  firing  call, 
And  various  clamor  fills  the  hall : 
Weighing  the  labor  with  the  cost, 
Toils  everywhere  the  bustling  host. 

in. 

Soon,  by  the  chimney's  merry  blaze, 
Through  the  rude  hostel  might  you  gaze. 
Might  see  where  in  dark  nook  aloof 
The  rafters  of  the  sooty  roof 

Bore  wealth  of  winter  cheer ; 
Of  sea-fowl  dried,  and  solands  store, 
And  gammons  of  the  tusky  boar, 

And  savory  haunch  of  deer. 
The  chimney  arch  projected  wide ; 
Above,  around  it,  and  beside, 

Were  tools  for  housewives'  hand  ; 
Nor  wanted,  in  that  martial  day, 
The  implements  of  Scottish  fray, 

The  buckler,  lance,  and  brand. 
Beneath  its  shade,  the  place  of  state, 
On  oaken  settle  Marmion  sate, 
And  viewed  around  the  blazing  hearth 
His  followers  mix  in  noisy  mirth  ; 
Whom  with  brown  ale,  in  jolly  tide, 


M ARM  ION. 


89 


From  ancient  vessels  ranged  aside 
Full  actively  their  host  supplied. 


IV. 

Theirs  was  the  glee  of  martial  breast,    • 
And  laughter  theirs  at  little  jest; 
And  oft  Lord  Marmion  deigned  to  aid, 
And  mingle  in  the  mirth  they  made; 
For  though,  with  men  of  high  degree, 
The  proudest  of  the  proud  was  he, 
Yet,  trained  in  camps,  he  knew  the  art 
To  win  the  soldier's  hardy  heart. 
They  love  a  captain  to  obey, 
Boisterous  as  March,  yet  fresh  as  May  ; 
With  open  hand  and  brow  as  free, 
Lover  of  wine  and  minstrelsy  ; 
Ever  the  first  to  scale  a  tower, 
As  venturous  in  a  lady's  bower :  — 
Such  buxom  chief  shall  lead  his  host 
From  India's  fires  to  Zembla's  frost. 


v. 

Resting  upon  his  pilgrim  staff, 
Right  opposite  the  Palmer  stood, 

His  thin  dark  visage  seen  but  half, 
Half  hidden  by  his  hood. 

Still  fixed  on  Marmion  was  his  look, 

Which  he,  who  ill  such  gaze  could  brook, 
Strove  by  a  frown  to  quell ; 

But  not  for  that,  though  more  than  once 


Full  met  their  stern  encountering  glance, 
The  Palmer's  visage  fell. 

VI. 

By  fits  less  frequent  from  the  crowd 
Was  heard  the  burst  of  laughter  loud ; 
For  still,  as  squire  and  archer  stared 
On  that  dark  face  and  matted  beard, 

Their  glee  and  game  declined. 
All  gazed  at  length  in  silence  drear, 
Unbroke  save  when  in  comrade's  ear 
Some  yeoman,  wondering  in  his  fear, 

Thus  whispered  forth  his  mind : 
'  Saint  Mary  !  saw'st  thou  e'er  such  sight  ? 
How  pale  his  cheek,  his  eye  how  bright, 
Whene'er  the  firebrand's  fickle  light 

Glances  beneath  his  cowl ! 
Full  on  our  lord  he  sets  his  eye  ; 
For  his  best  palfrey  would  not  I 

Endure  that  sullen  scowl.' 

VII. 

But  Marmion,  as  to  chase  the  awe 

Which  thus  had  quelled  their  hearts  who 

saw 
The  ever-varying  firelight  show 
That  figure  stern  and  face  of  woe, 

Now  called  upon  a  squire  : 
•  Fitz-Eustace,  know'st  thou  not  some  lay, 
To  speed  the  lingering  night  away  ? 

We  slumber  by  the  fire.' 


9Q 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL    WORKS. 


1  So  please  you,'  thus  the  youth  rejoined, 
'  Our  choicest  minstrel 's  left  behind. 
Ill  may  we  hope  to  please  your  ear, 
Accustomed  Constant's  strains  to  hear. 
The  harp  full  deftly  can  he  strike, 
And  wake  the  lover's  lute  alike  ; 
To  dear  Saint  Valentine  no  thrush 
Sings  livelier  from  a  springtide  bush, 
No  nightingale  her  lovelorn  tune 
More  sweetly  warbles  to  the  moon. 
Woe  to  the  cause,  whate'er  it  be. 
Detains  from  us  his  melody, 
Lavished  on  rocks  and  billows  stern, 
Or  duller  monks  of  Lindisfarne. 
Now  must  I  venture  as  I  may, 
To  sing  his  favorite  roundelay.' 


A  mellow  voice  Fitz-Eustace  had, 
The  air  he  chose  was  wild  and  sad ; 
Such  have  I  heard  in  Scottish  land 
Rise  from  the  busy  harvest  band, 
When  falls  before  the  mountaineer 
On  Lowland  plains  the  ripened  ear. 
Now  one  shrill  voice  the  notes  prolong, 
Now  a  wild  chorus  swells  the  song : 
Oft  have  I  listened  and  stood  still 
As  it  came  softened  up  the  hill, 
And  deemed  it  the  lament  of  men 
Who  languished  for  their  native  glen, 


And  thought  how  sad  would  be  such  sound 
On  Susquehanna's  swampy  ground, 
Kentucky's  wood-encumbered  brake. 
Or  wild  Ontario's  boundless  lake, 
Where  heart-sick  exiles  in  the  strain 
Recalled  fair  Scotland's  hills  again  ! 

x. 

SONG. 

Where  shall  the  lover  rest, 

Whom  the  fates  sever 
From  his  true  maiden's  breast, 

Parted  forever  ? 
Where,  through  groves  deep  and  high. 

Sounds  the  far  billow, 
Where  early  violets  die, 

Under  the  willow. 


Eleti  loro,  etc. 


CHORUS. 

Soft  shall  be  his  pillow 


There,  through  the  summer  day, 

Cool  streams  are  laving  ; 
There,  while  the  tempests  sway, 

Scarce  are  boughs  waving ; 
There  thy  rest  shalt  thou  take, 

Parted  forever, 
Never  again  to  wake. 

Never,  O  never  ! 


Eleii  loro,  etc. 


CHORUS. 

Never,  O  never ! 


M ARM  ION. 


91 


XI. 

Where  shall  the  traitor  rest, 

He  the  deceiver, 
Who  could  win  maiden's  breast, 

Ruin  and  leave  her? 
In  the  lost  battle, 

Borne  down  by  the  flying, 
Where  mingles  war's  rattle 

With  groans  of  the  dying. 


Eleu  loro,  etc.     There  shall  he  be  lying. 

Her  wing  shall  the  eagle  flap 

O'er  the  false-hearted ; 
His  warm  blood  the  wolf  shall  lap, 

Ere  life  be  parted. 
Shame  and  dishonor  sit 

By  his  grave  ever  ; 
Blessing  shall  hallow  it,  — 

Never,  O  never  ! 

CHORUS. 

Eleu  loro,  etc.     Never,  O  never  ! 

XII. 

It  ceased,  the  melancholy  sound, 
And  silence  sunk  on  all  around. 
The  air  was  sad  ;  but  sadder  still 
It  fell  on  Marmion's  ear, 


And  plained  as  if  disgrace  and  ill, 
And  shameful  death,  were  near. 

He  drew  his  mantle  past  his  face, 
Between  it  and  the  band, 

And  rested  with  his  head  a  space 
Reclining  on  his  hand. 

His  thoughts  I  scan  not ;  but  I  ween 

That,  could  their  import  have  been  seen. 

The  meanest  groom  in  all  the  hall, 

That  e'er  tied  courser  to  a  stall, 

Would   scarce    have   wished  to   be    then 
prey, 

For  Lutterward  and  Fontenaye. 

XIII. 

High  minds,  of  native  pride  and  force, 
Most  deeply  feel  thy  pangs,  Remorse  ! 
Fear  for  their  scourge  mean  villains  have, 
Thou  art  the  torturer  of  the  brave  ! 
Yet  fatal  strength  they  boast  to  steel 
Their  minds  to  bear  the  wounds  they  feel, 
Even  while  they  writhe  beneath  the  smart 
Of  civil  conflict  in  the  heart. 
For  soon  Lord  Marmion  raised  his  head, 
And  smiling  to  Fitz-Eustace  said  : 
<  Is  it  not  strange  that,  as  ye  sung, 
Seemed  in  mine  ear  a  death-peal  rung, 
Such  as  in  nunneries  they  toll 
For  some  departing  sister's  soul  ? 

Say,  what  may  this  portend?' 
Then  first  the  Palmer  silence  broke,  — 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL   WORKS. 


The  livelong  day  he  had  not  spoke,  — 
'  The  death  of  a  dear  friend.' 

XIV. 

Marmion,  whose  steady  heart  and  eye 
Ne'er  changed  in  worst  extremity, 
Marmion,  whose  soul  could  scantly  brook 
Even  from  his  king  a  haughty  look, 
Whose  accent  of  command  controlled 
In  camps  the  boldest  of  the  bold  — 
Thought,   look,  and  utterance   failed  him 

now, 
Fallen  was  his  glance  and  flushed  his  brow  ; 
For  either  in  the  tone. 


Its  fugitive  the  Church  he  gave, 

Though  not  a  victim,  but  a  slave, 

And  deemed  restraint  in  convent  strange 

Would  hide  her  wrongs  and  her  revenge. 

Himself,  proud  Henry's  favorite  peer, 

Held  Romish  thunders  idle  fear; 

Secure  his  pardon  he  might  hold 

For  some  slight  mulct  of  penance-gold. 

Thus  judging,  he  gave  secret  way 

When  the  stern  priests  surprised  their  prey. 

His  train  but  deemed  the  favorite  page 

Was  left  behind  to  spare  his  age  ; 

Or  other  if  they  deemed,  none  dared 

To  mutter  what  he  thought  and  heard : 


Or  something  in  the  Palmer's  look, 
So  full  upon  his  conscience  strook 

That  answer  he  found  none. 
Thus  oft  it  haps  that  when  within 
They  shrink  at  sense  of  secret  sin, 

A  feather  daunts  the  brave  ; 
A  fool's  wild  speech  confounds  the  wise, 
And  proudest  princes  vail  their  eyes 

Before  their  meanest  slave. 


xv. 

WTell  might  he  falter !  —  By  his  aid 
Was  Constance  Beverley -betrayed. 
Not  that  he  augured  of  the  doom 
Which  on  the  living  closed  the  tomb : 
But,  tired  to  hear  the  desperate  maid 
Threaten  by  turns,  beseech,  upbraid, 
And  wroth  because  in  wild  despair 
She  practised  on  the  life  of  Clare, 


Woe  to  the  vassal  who  durst  pry 
Into  Lord  Marmion's  privacy  ! 


His  conscience  slept  —  he  deemed  her  well, 
And  safe  secured  in  distant  cell ; 
But,  wakened  by  her  favorite  lay, 
And  that  strange  Palmer's  boding  say 
That  fell  so  ominous  and  drear 
Full  on  the  object  of  his  fear, 
To  aid  remorse's  venomed  throes, 
Dark  tales  of  conve*nt-vengeance  rose  ; 
And  Constance,  late  betrayed  and  scorned. 
All  lovely  on  his  soul  returned  ; 
Lovely  as  when  at  treacherous  call 
She  left  her  convent's  peaceful  wall, 
Crimsoned  with  shame,  with  terror  mute, 
Dreading  alike  escape,  pursuit, 
Till  love,  victorious  o'er  alarms, 
Hid  fears  and  blushes  in  his  arms. 


MARMION. 


93 


«  Alas! '  he  thought,  'how  changed  that  mien! 

How  changed  these  timid  looks  have  been, 

Since  years  of  guilt  and  of  disguise 

Have  steeled  her  brow  and  armed  her  eyes  ! 

No  more  of  virgin  terror  speaks 

The  blood  that  mantles  in  her  cheeks ; 

Fierce  and  unfeminine  are  there, 

Frenzy  for  joy,  for  grief  despair ; 

And  I  the  cause  —  for  whom  were  given 

Her  peace  on  earth,  her  hopes  in  heaven  !  — 

Would,'  thought  he,  as  the  picture  grows, 

'  I  on  its  stalk  had  left  the  rose  ! 

Oh,  why  should  man's  success  remove 

The  very  charms  that  wake  his  love?  — 

Her  convent's  peaceful  solitude 

Is  now  a  prison  harsh  and  rude ; 

And,  pent  within  the  narrow  cell, 

How  will  her  spirit  chafe  and  swell ! 

How  brook  the  stern  monastic  laws ! 

The  penance  how  —  and  I  the  cause  !  — 

Vigil  and  scourge  —  perchance  even  worse  ! ' 

And  twice  he  rose  to  cry,  '  To  horse  ! ' 

And  twice  his  sovereign's  mandate  came, 

Like  damp  upon  a  kindling  flame  ; 

And  twice  he  thought,  '  Gave  I  not  charge 


She  should  be  safe,  though  not  at  large  ? 
They  durst  not,  for  their  island,  shred 
One  golden  ringlet  from  her  head.' 


XVIII. 

While  thus  in  Marmion's  bosom  strove 

Repentance  and  reviving  love, 

Like  whirlwinds  whose  contending  sway 

I  've  seen  Loch  Vennachar  obey, 

Their  host  the  Palmer's  speech  had  heard. 

And  talkative  took  up  the  word  : 

'  Ay,  reverend  pilgrim,  you  who  stray 

From  Scotland's  simple  land  away, 
To  visit  realms  afar, 

Full  often  learn  the  art  to  know 

Of  future  weal  or  future  woe, 
By  word,  or  sign,  or  star ; 
Yet  might  a  knight  his  fortune  hear, 
If,  knight-like,  he  despises  fear, 
Not  far  from  hence ;  —  if  fathers  old 
Aright  our  hamlet  legend  told.' 
These  broken  words  the  menials  move,  — 
For  marvels  still  the  vulgar  love,  — 
And,  Marmion  giving  license  cold, 
His  tale  the  host  thus  gladly  told  :  — 


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XIX. 

Efy  post's  &ale. 

'  A  clerk  could  tell  what  years  have  flown 

Since  Alexander  filled  our  throne,  — 

Third  monarch  of  that  warlike  name,  — 

And  eke  the  time  when  here  he  came 

To  seek  Sir  Hugo,  then  our  lord :    ■ 

A  braver  never  drew  a  sword  ; 

A  wiser  never,  at  the  hour 

Of  midnight,  spoke  the  word  of  power ; 

The  same  whom  ancient  records  call 

The  founder  of  the  Goblin-Hall. 

I  would,  Sir  Knight,  your  longer  stay 

Gave  you  that  cavern  to  survey. 

Of  lofty  roof  and  ample  size, 

Beneath  the  castle  deep  it  lies  : 

To  hew  the  living  rock  profound, 

The  floor  to  pave,  the  arch  to  round, 

There  never  toiled  a  mortal  arm, 

It  all  was  wrought  by  word  and  charm 

And  I  have  heard  my  grandsire  say 

That  the  wild  clamor  and  affray 

Of  those  dread  artisans  of  hell, 

Who  labored  under  Hugo's  spell, 

Sounded  as  loud  as  ocean's  war 

Among  the  caverns  of  Dunbar. 

xx. 

1  The  king  Lord  Gifford's  castle  sought, 
Deep  laboring  with  uncertain  thought. 
Even  then  he  mustered  all  his  host, 
To  meet  upon  the  western  coast ; 
For  Norse  and  Danish  galleys  plied 
Their  oars  within  the  Firth  of  Clyde. 
There  floated  Haco's  banner  trim 
Above  Norweyan  warriors  grim, 
Savage  of  heart  and  large  of  limb, 
Threatening  both  continent  and  isle, 
Bute,  Arran,  Cunninghame,  and  Kyle. 
Lord  Gifford,  deep  beneath  the  ground, 
Heard  Alexander's  bugle  sound, 
And  tarried  not  his  garb  to  change, 
But,  in  his  wizard  habit  strange, 
Came  forth,  —  a  quaint  and  fearful  sight : 
His  mantle  lined  with  fox-skins  white ; 
His  high  and  wrinkled  forehead  bore 
A  pointed  cap,  such  as  of  yore 
Clerks  say  that  Pharaoh's  Magi  wore  ; 
His  shoes  were  marked  with  cross  and  spell. 
Upon  his  breast  a  pentacle  ; 
His  zone  of  virgin  parchment  thin, 
Or,  as  some  tell,  of  dead  man's  skin, 
Bore  many  a  planetary  sign, 
Combust,  and  retrograde,  and  trine  ; 
And  in  his  hand  he  held  prepared 
A  naked  sword  without  a  guard. 

XXI. 

1  Dire  dealings  with  the  fiendish  race 
Had  marked  strange  lines  upon  his  face  ; 


Vigil  and  fast  had  worn  him  grim, 
His  eyesight  dazzled  seemed  and  dim, 
As  one  unused  to  upper  day ; 
Even  his  own  menials  with  dismay 
Beheld,  Sir  Knight,  the  grisly  sire 
In  this  unwonted  wild  attire; 
Unwonted,  for  traditions  run 
He  seldom  thus  beheld  the  sun. 
u  I  know,"  he  said,  —  his  voice  was  hoarse, 
And  broken  seemed  its  hollow  force,  — 
"  I  know  the  caused  although  untold, 
Why  the  king  seeks  his  vassal's  hold  : 
Vainly  from  me  my  liege  would  know 
His  kingdom's  future  weal  or  woe  ; 
But  yet,  if  strong  his  arm  and  heart, 
His  courage  may  do  more  than  art. 


XXII. 

1 "  Of  middle  air  the  demons  proud, 

Who  ride  upon  the  racking  cloud, 

Can  read  in  fixed  or  wandering  star 

The  issue  of  events  afar, 

But  still  their  sullen  aid  withhold, 

Save  when  by  mightier  force  controlled. 

Such  late  I  summoned  to  my  hall ; 

And  though  so  potent  was  the  call 

That  scarce  the  deepest  nook  of  hell 

I  deemed  a  refuge  from  the  spell, 

Yet,  obstinate  in  silence  still, 

The  haughty  demon  mocks  my  skill. 

But  thou,  —  who  little  know'st  thy  might 

As  born  upon  that  blessed  night 

When  yawning  graves  and  dying  groan 

Proclaimed  hell's  empire  overthrown,  — 

With  untaught  valor  shalt  compel 

Response  denied  to  magic  spell." 

"  Gramercy,"  quoth  our  monarch  free, 

"  Place  him  but  front  to  front  with  me. 

And,  by  this  good  and  honored  brand. 

The  gift  of  Cceur-de-Lion's  hand, 

Soothly  I  swear  that,  tide  what  tide. 

The  demon  shall  a  buffet  bide." 

His  bearing  bold  the  wizard  viewed. 

And  thus,  well  pleased,  his  speech  renewed  : 

"  There  spoke  the  blood  of  Malcolm  !  — 

mark: 
Forth  pacing  hence  at  midnight  dark, 
The  rampart  seek  whose  circling  crown 
Crests  the  ascent  of  yonder  down  : 
A  southern  entrance  shalt  thou  find  ; 
There  halt,  and  there  thy  bugle  wind, 
And  trust  thine  elfin  foe  to  see 
In  guise  of  thy  worst  enemy. 
Couch  then  thy  lance  and  spur  thy  steed  — 
Upon  him  !  and  Saint  George  to  speed  ! 
If  he  go  down,  thou  soon  shalt  know 
Whate'er  these  airy  sprites  can  show ; 
If  thy  heart  fail  thee  in  the  strife, 
I  am  no  warrant  for  thy  life." 


MARMION. 


95 


XXIII. 

1  Soon  as  the  midnight  bell  did  ring, 
Alone  and  armed,  forth  rode  the  king 
To  that  old  camp's  deserted  round. 
Sir  Knight,  you  well  might  mark  the  mound 


Left  hand  the  town,  —  the  Pictish  race 
The  trench,  long  since,  in  blood  did  trace  : 
The  moor  around  is  brown  and  bare, 
The  space  within  is  green  and  fair. 
The  spot  our  village  children  know, 


96 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL    WORKS. 


For  there  the  earliest  wild-flowers  grow ; 
But  woe  betide  the  wandering  wight 
That  treads  its  circle  in  the  night ! 
The  breadth  across,  a  bowshot  clear, 
Gives  ample  space  for  full  career ; 
Opposed  to  the  four  points  of  heaven, 
By  four  deep  gaps  are  entrance  given. 
The  southernmost  our  monarch  passed, 
Halted,  and  blew  a  gallant  blast ; 
And  on  the  north,  within  the  ring, 
Appeared  the  form  of  England's  king, 
Who  then,  a  thousand  leagues  afar, 
In  Palestine  waged  holy  war  : 
Yet  arms  like  England's  did  he  wield ; 
Alike  the  leopards  in  the  shield, 
Alike  his  Syrian  courser's  frame, 
The  rider's  length  of  limb  the  same. 
Long  afterwards  did  Scotland  know 
Fell  Edward  was  her  deadliest  foe. 

XXIV. 

*  The  vision  made  our  monarch  start, 
But  soon  he  manned  his  noble  heart, 
And  in  the  first  career  they  ran, 
The  Elfin  Knight  fell,  horse  and  man 
Yet  did  a  splinter  of  his  lance 
Through  Alexander's  visor  glance, 
And  razed  the  skin  —  a  puny  wound. 
The  king,  light  leaping  to  the  ground, 
With  naked  blade  his  phantom  foe 
Compelled  the  future  war  to  show. 
Of  Largs  he  saw  the  glorious  plain, 
Where  still  gigantic  bones  remain, 

Memorial  of  the  Danish  war ; 
Himself  he  saw,  amid  the  field, 
On  high  his  brandished  war-axe  wield 
And  strike  proud  Haco  from  his  car, 
While  all  around  the  shadowy  kings 
Denmark's   grim   ravens   cowered   their 
wings. 
'T  is  said  that  in  that  awful  night 
Remoter  visions  met  his  sight, 
Foreshowing  future  conquest  far, 
When  our  sons'  sons  wage  Northern  war  ; 
A  royal  city,  tower  and  spire, 
Reddened  the  midnight  sky  with  fire, 
And  shouting  crews  her  navy  bore 
Triumphant  to  the  victor  shore. 
Such  signs  may  learned  clerks  explain, 
They  pass  the  wit  of  simple  swain. 


'  The  joyful  king  turned  home  again, 
Headed  his  host,  and  quelled  the  Dane ; 
But  yearly,  when  returned  the  night 
Of  his  strange  combat  with  the  sprite, 

His  wound  must  bleed  and  smart ; 
Lord  Gifford  then  would  gibing  say, 
"  Bold  as  ye  were,  my  liege,  ye  pay 

The  penance  of  your  start." 


Long  since,  beneath  Dunfermline's  nave, 
King  Alexander  fills  his  grave, 

Our  Lady  give  him  rest ! 
Yet  still  the  knightly  spear  and  shield 
The  Elfin  Warrior  doth  wield 

Upon  the  brown  hill's  breast, 
And  many  a  knight  hath  proved  his  chance 
In  the  charmed  ring  to  break  a  lance, 

But  all  have  foully  sped  ; 
Save  two,  as  legends  tell,  and  they 
Were  Wallace  wight  and  Gilbert  Hay.  — 

Gentles,  my  tale  is  said.' 


The  quaighs  were  deep,  the  liquor  strong, 
And  on  the  tale  the  yeoman-throng 
Had  made  a  comment  sage  and  long, 

But  Marmion  gave  a  sign  : 
And  with  their  lord  the  squires  retire, 
The  rest  around  the  hostel  fire 

Their  drowsy  limbs  recline  ; 
For  pillow,  underneath  each  head, 
The  quiver  and  the  targe  were  laid. 
Deep  slumbering  on  the  hostel  floor, 
Oppressed  with  toil  and  ale,  they  snore; 
The  dying  flame,  in  fitful  change, 
Threw  on  the  group  its  shadows  strange. 

XXVII. 

Apart,  and  nestling  in  the  hay 
Of  a  waste  loft,  Fitz-Eustace  lay  ; 
Scarce  by  the  pale  moonlight  were  seen 
The  foldings  of  his  mantle  green : 
Lightly  he  dreamt,  as  youth  will  dream, 
Of  sport  by  thicket,  or  by  stream, 
Of  hawk  or  hound,  or  ring  or  glove, 
Or,  lighter  yet,  of  lady's  love. 
A  cautious  tread  his  slumber  broke, 
And,  close  beside  him  when  he  woke, 
In  moonbeam  half,  and  half  in  gloom, 
Stood  a  tall  form  with  nodding  plume ; 
But,  ere  his  dagger  Eustace  drew, 
His  master  Marmion's  voice  he  knew : 

XXVIII. 

1  Fitz-Eustace  !  rise,  —  I  cannot  rest ; 
Yon  churl's  wild  legend  haunts  my  breast, 
And  graver  thoughts  have  chafed  my  mood ; 
The  air  must  cool  my  feverish  blood, 
And  fain  would  I  ride  forth  to  see 
The  scene  of  elfin  chivalry. 
Arise,  and  saddle  me  my  steed ; 
And,  gentle  Eustace,  take  good  heed 
Thou  dost  not  rouse  these  drowsy  slaves ; 
I  would  not  that  the  prating  knaves 
Had  cause  for  saying,  o'er  their  ale, 
That  I  could  credit  such  a  tale.' 
Then  softly  down  the  steps  they  slid, 
Eustace  the  stable  door  undid, 


M ARM  ION. 


9? 


And,  darkling,  Marmion's  steed  arrayed, 
While,  whispering,  thus  the  baron  said:  — 

XXIX. 

1  Didst  never,  good  my  youth,  hear  tell 

That  on  the  hour  when  I  was  born 
Saint  George,  who  graced  my  sire's  chapelle, 
Down  from  his  steed  of  marble  fell, 

A  weary  wight  forlorn  ? 
The  flattering  chaplains  all  agree 
The  champion  left  his  steed  to  me. 
I  would,  the  omen's  truth  to  show, 
That  I  could  meet  this  elfin  foe ! 
Blithe  would  I  battle  for  the  right 
To  ask  one  question  at  the  sprite.  — 
Vain  thought !  for  elves,  if  elves  there  be, 
An  empty  race,  by  fount  or  sea 
To  dashing  waters  dance  and  sing, 
Or  round  the  green  oak  wheel  their  ring.' 
Thus  speaking,  he  his  steed  bestrode, 
And  from  the  hostel  slowly  rode. 

XXX. 

Fitz-Eustace  followed  him  abroad, 
And  marked  him  pace  the  village  road, 

And  listened  to  his  horse's  tramp, 
Till,  by  the  lessening  sound, 

He  judged  that  of  the  Pictish  camp 
Lord  Marmion  sought  the  round. 
Wonder  it  seemed,  in  the  squire's  eyes, 
That  one,  so  wary  held  and  wise,  — 
Of  whom  't  was  said,  he  scarce  received 
For  gospel  what  the  Church  believed,  — 

Should,  stirred  by  idle  tale, 
Ride  forth  in  silence  of  the  night, 


As  hoping  half  to  meet  a  spriti-. 

Arrayed  in  plate  and  mail. 
For  little  did  Fitz-Eustace  know 
That  passions  in  contending  flow 

Unfix  the  strongest  mind ; 
Wearied  from  doubt  to  doubt  to  flee, 
We  welcome  fond  credulity, 

Guide  confident,  though  blind. 


Little  for  this  Fitz-Eus.tace  cared, 
But  patient  waited  till  he  heard 
At  distance,  pricked  to  utmost  speed, 
The  foot-tramp  of  a  flying  steed 

Come  townward  rushing  on  ; 
First,  dead,  as  if  on  turf  it  trode, 
Then,  clattering  omthe  village  road,  — 
In  other  pace  than  forth  he  yode, 

Returned  Lord  Marmion. 
Down  hastily  he  sprung  from  selle, 
And  in  his  haste  wellnigh  he  fell ; 
To  the  squire's  hand  the  rein  he  threw. 
And  spoke  no  word  as  he  withdrew  : 
But  yet  the  moonlight  did  betray 
The  falcon-crest  was  soiled  with  clay  ; 
And  plainly  might  Fitz-Eustace  see, 
By  stains  upon  the  charger's  knee 
And  his  left  side,  that  on  the  moor 
He  had  not  kept  his  footing  sure. 
Long  musing  on  these  wondrous  signs, 
At  length  to  rest  the  squire  reclines, 
Broken  and  short ;  for  still  between 
Would  dreams  of  terror  intervene : 
Eustace  did  ne'er  so  blithely  mark 
The  first  notes  of  the  morning  lark. 


%W  y'> 


98 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL    WORKS. 


ittarmion. 


INTRODUCTION  TO  CANTO  FOURTH. 
To   JAMES   SKENE,   ESQ. 

Ashestiel,  Ettrick  Forest. 

An  ancient  Minstrel  sagely  said, 

'  Where  is  the  life  which  late  we  led  ?  ' 

That  motley  clown  in  Arden  wood, 

Whom  humorous  Jaques  with  envy  viewed, 

Not  even  that  clown  could  amplify 

On  this  trite  text  so  long  as  I. 

Eleven  years  we  now  may  tell 

Since  we  have  known  each  other  well, 

Since,  riding  side  by  side,  our  hand 

First  drew  the  voluntary  brand  ; 

And  sure,  through  many  a  varied  scene, 

Unkindness  never  came  between. 

Away  these  winged  years  have  flown, 

To  join  the  mass  of  ages  gone  ; 

And  though  deep  marked,  like  all  below, 

With  checkered  shades  of  joy  and  woe, 

Though  thou   o'er  realms   and   seas .  hast 

ranged, 
Marked  cities  lost  and  empires  changed, 
While  here  at  home  my  narrower  ken 
Somewhat  of  manners  saw  and  men ; 
Though  varying  wishes,  hopes,  and  fears 
Fevered  the  progress  of  these  years, 
Yet  now,  days,  weeks,  and  months  but  seem 
The  recollection  of  a  dream, 
So  still  we  glide  down  to  the  sea 
Of  fathomless  eternity. 

Even  now  it  scarcely  seems  a  day 
Since  first  I  tuned  this  idle  lay ; 
A  task  so  often  thrown  aside, 
When  leisure  graver  cares  denied, 
That  now  November's  dreary  gale, 
Whose  voice  inspired  my  opening  tale, 
That  same  November  gale  once  more 
Whirls  the  dry  leaves  on  Yarrow  shore. 
Their  vexed  boughs  streaming  to  the  sky, 
Once  more  our  naked  birches  sigh, 
And  Blackhouse  heights  and  Ettrick  Pen 
Have  donned  their  wintry  shrouds  again, 


And  mountain  dark  and  flooded  mead 
Bid  us  forsake  the  banks  of  Tweed. 
Earlier  than  wont  along  the  sky, 
Mixed    with    the    rack,    the    snow   mists 

fly; 
The  shepherd  who,  in  summer  sun, 
Had  something  of  our  envy  won, 
As  thou  with  pencil,  I  with  pen, 
The  features  traced  of  hill  and  glen,  — 
He  who,  outstretched  the  livelong  day, 
At  ease  among  the  heath-flowers  lay, 
Viewed  the  light  clouds  with  vacant  look. 
Or  slumbered  o'er  his  tattered  book, 
Or  idly  busied  him  to  guide 
His  angle  o'er  the  lessened  tide,  — 
At  midnight  now  the  snowy  plain 
Finds  sterner  labor  for  the  swain. 


When  red  hath  set  the  beamless  sun 
Through  heavy  vapors  dank  and  dun, 
When  the  tired  ploughman,  dry  and  warm, 
Hears,  half  asleep,  the  rising  storm 
Hurling  the  hail  and  sleeted  rain 
Against  the  casement's  tinkling  pane  ; 
The  sounds  that  drive  wild  deer  and  fox 
To  shelter  in  the  brake  and  rocks 
Are  warnings  which  the  shepherd  ask 
To  dismal  and  to  dangerous  task. 
Oft  he  looks  forth,  and  hopes,  in  vain, 
The  blast  may  sink  in  mellowing  rain  : 
Till,  dark  above  and  white  below, 
Decided  drives  the  flaky  snow, 
And  forth  the  hardy  swain  must  go. 
Long,  with  dejected  look  and  whine, 
To  leave  the  hearth  his  dogs  repine  ; 
Whistling  and  cheering  them  to  aid, 
Around  his  back  he  wreathes  the  plaid  r 
His  flock  he  gathers  and  he  guides 
To  open  downs  and  mountain-sides, 
Where  fiercest  though  the  tempest  blow. 
Least  deeply  lies  the  drift  below. 
The  blast  that  whistles  o'er  the  fells 
Stiffens  his  locks  to  icicles ; 
Oft  he  looks  back  while,  streaming  far, 
His  cottage  window  seems  a  star,  — 
Loses  its  feeble  gleam,  —  and  then 
Turns  patient  to  the  blast  again, 
And,  facing  to  the  tempest's  sweep, 
Drives    through    the    gloom    his    lagging 

sheep. 
If  fails  his  heart,  if  his  limbs  fail, 
Benumbing  death  is  in  the  gale ; 
His  paths,  his  landmarks,  all  unknown, 
Close  to  the  hut,  no  more  his  own, 
Close  to  the  aid  he  sought  in  vain, 
The  morn  may  find  the  stiffened  swain  i 
The  widow  sees,  at  dawning  pale, 
His  orphans  raise  their  feeble  wail ; 
And,  close  beside  him  in  the  snow, 
Poor  Yarrow,  partner  of  their  woe, 


M ARM  ION. 


99 


Couches  upon  his  master's  breast, 
And  licks  his  cheek  to  break  his  rest. 

Who  envies  now  the  shepherd's  lot, 
His  healthy  fare,  his  rural  cot, 
His  summer  couch  by  greenwood  tree, 
His  rustic  kirn's  loud  revelry, 
His  native  hill-notes  tuned  on  high 
To  Marion  of  the  blithesome  eye, 
His  crook,  his  scrip,  his  oaten  reed, 
And  all  Arcadia's  golden  creed  ? 

Changes  not  so  with  us,  my  Skene, 
Of  human  life  the  varying  scene  ? 
Our  youthful  summer  oft  we  see 
Dance  by  on  wings  of  game  and  glee, 
While  the  dark  storm  reserves  its  rage 
Against  the  winter  of  our  age  ; 
As  he,  the  ancient  chief  of  Troy, 
His  manhood  spent  in  peace  and  joy, 
But  Grecian  fires  and  loud  alarms 
Called  ancient  Priam  forth  to  arms. 
Then  happy  those,  since  each  must  drain 
His  share  of  pleasure,  share  of  pain,  — 
Then  happy  those,  beloved  of  Heaven, 
To  whom  the  mingled  cup  is  given  ; 
Whose  lenient  sorrows  find  relief, 
Whose  joys  are  chastened  by  their  grief. 
And  such  a  lot,  my  Skene,  was  thine, 
When  thou  of  late  wert  doomed  to  twine - 
Just  when  thy  bridal  hour  was  by  — 
The  cypress  with  the  myrtle  tie. 
Just  on  thy  bride  her  sire  had  smiled, 
And  blessed  the  union  of  his  child, 
When  love  must  change  its  joyous  cheer, 
And  wipe  affection's  filial  tear. 
Nor  did  the  actions  next  his  end 
Speak  more  the  father  than  the  friend  : 
Scarce  had  lamented  Forbes  paid 
The  tribute  to  his  minstrel's  shade, 
The  tale  of  friendship  scarce  was  told, 
Ere  the  narrator's  heart  was  cold  — 
Far  may  we  search  before  we  find 
A  heart  so  manly  and  so  kind ! 
But  not  around  his  honored  urn 
Shall  friends  alone  and  kindred  mourn  ; 
The  thousand  eyes  his  care  had  dried 
Pour  at  his  name  a  bitter  tide, 
And  frequent  falls  the  grateful  dew 
For  benefits  the  world  ne'er  knew. 
If  mortal  charity  dare  claim 
The  Almighty's  attributed  name, 
Inscribe  above  his  mouldering  clay, 
'  The  widow's  shield,  the  orphan's  stay.' 
Nor,  though  it  wake  thy  sorrow,  deem 
My  verse  intrudes  on  this  sad  theme, 
For  sacred  was  the  pen  that  wrote, 
'  Thy  father's  friend  forget  thou  not ;  ' 
And  grateful  title  may  I  plead, 
For  many  a  kindly  word  and  deed, 


To  bring  my  tribute  to  his  grave  :  — 
'T  is  little  — but  't  is  all  I  have. 

To  thee,  perchance,  this  rambling  strain 
Recalls  our  summer  walks  again; 
When,  doing  nought,  —and,  to  speak  true, 
Not  anxious  to  find  aught  to  do,— 
The  wild  unbounded  hills  we  ranged, 
While  oft  our  talk  its  topic  changed, 
And,  desultory  as  our  way, 
Ranged  unconfined  from  grave  to  gay. 
Even  when  it  flagged,  as  oft  will  chance, 
No  effort  made  to  break  its  trance, 
We  could  right  pleasantly  pursue 
Our  sports  in  social  silence  too  ; 
Thou  gravely  laboring  to  portray 
The  blighted  oak's  fantastic  spray, 
I  spelling  o'er  with  much  delight 
The  legend  of  that  antique  knight, 
Tirante  by  name,  ycleped  the  White. 
At  either's  feet  a  trusty  squire, 
Pandour  and  Camp,  with  eyes  of  fire, 
Jealous  each  other's  motions  viewed, 
And  scarce  suppressed  their  ancient  feud. 
The  laverock  whistled  from  the  cloud ; 
The  stream  was  lively,  but  not  loud; 
From  the  white  thorn  the  May-flower  shed 
Its  dewy  fragrance  round  our  head  : 
Not  Ariel  lived  more  merrily 
Under  the  blossomed  bough  than  we. 

And  blithesome  nights,  too,  have  been 
ours, 
When  Winter  stript  the  Summer's  bowers. 
Careless  we  heard,  what  now  I  hear, 
The  wild  blast  signing  deep  and  drear, 
When  fires  were  bright  and  lamps  beamed 

And  ladies  tuned  the  lovely  lay, 
And  he  was  held  a  laggard  soul 
Who  shunned  to  quaff  the  sparkling  bowl. 
Then  he  whose  absence  we  deplore, 
Who  breathes  the  gales  of  Devon's  shore, 
The  longer  missed,  bewailed  the  more, 
And  thou,  and  I,  and  dear-loved  Rae, 
And  one  whose  name  I  may  not  say,  — 
For  not  mimosa's  tender  tree 
Shrinks  sooner  from  the  touch  than  he,  — 
In  merry  chorus  well  combined, 
With  laughter  drowned  the  whistling  wind. 
Mirth  was  within,  and  Care  without 
Might  gnaw  her  nails  to  hear  our  shout. 
Not  but  amid  the  buxom  scene 
Some  grave  discourse  might  intervene  — 
Of  the  good  horse  that  bore  him  best, 
His  shoulder,  hoof,  and  arching  crest; 
For,  like  mad  Tom's,  our  chiefest  care 
Was  horse  to  ride  and  weapon  wear. 
Such  nights  we've  had;  and,  though  the 
game 


IOO 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL   WORKS. 


Of  manhood  be  more  sober  tame, 
And  though  the  field-day  or  the  drill 
Seem  less  important  now,  yet  still 
Such  may  we  hope  to  share  again. 
The  sprightly  thought  inspires  my  strain ! 
And  mark  how,  like  a  horseman  true, 
Lord  Marmion's  march  I  thus  renew. 


iflarmion. 

CANTO   FOURTH. 

THE    CAMP. 


Eustace,  I  said,  did  blithely  mark 
The  first  notes  of  the  merry  lark. 
The  lark  sang  shrill,  the  cock  he  crew, 
And  loudly  Marmion's  bugles  blew, 
And  with  their  light  and  lively  call 
Brought  groom  and  yeoman  to  the  stall. 
Whistling  they  came  and  free  of  heart, 

But  soon  their  mood  was  changed ; 
Complaint  was  heard  on  every  part 

Of  something  disarranged. 
Some  clamored  loud  for  armor  lost ; 
Some  brawled  and  wrangled  with  the  host ; 
'  By  Becket's  bones,'  cried  one,  •  I  fear 
That  some  false  Scot  has  stolen  my  spear ! ' 
Young    Blount,    Lord    Marmion's    second 

squire, 
Found  his  steed  wet  with  sweat  and  mire, 
Although  the  rated  horseboy  sware 
Last  night  he  dressed  him  sleek  and  fair. 
While   chafed   the   impatient    squire    like 

thunder, 
Old  Hubert  shouts  in  fear  and  wonder,  — 
*  Help,  gentle  Blount !  help,  comrades  all ! 
Bevis  lies  dying  in  his  stall ; 
To  Marmion  who  the  plight  dare  tell 
Of  the  good  steed  he  loves  so  well?' 
Gaping  for  fear  and  ruth,  they  saw 
The  charger  panting  on  his  straw ; 
Till  one,  who  would  seem  wisest,  cried, 
k  What  else  but  evil  could  betide, 
With  that  cursed  Palmer  for  our  guide  ? 


Better  we  had  through  mire  and  bush 
Been  lantern-led  by  Friar  Rush.' 


Fitz-Eustace,  who  the  cause  but  guessed, 

Nor  wholly  understood, 
His    comrades'    clamorous     plaints     sup- 
pressed ; 

He  knew  Lord  Marmion's  mood. 
Him,  ere  he  issued  forth,  he  sought, 
And  found  deep  plunged  in  gloomy  thought. 

And  did  his  tale  display 
Simply,  as  if  he  knew  of  nought 

To  cause  such  disarray. 
Lord  Marmion  gave  attention  cold, 
Nor  marvelled  at  the  wonders  told,  — 
Passed  them  as  accidents  of  course, 
And  bade  his  clarions  sound  to  horse. 


in. 

Young  Henry  Blount,  meanwhile,  the  cost 
Had  reckoned  with  their  Scottish  host; 
And,  as  the  charge  he  cast  and  paid, 
'  111  thou  deserv'st  thy  hire,'  he  said ; 
'  Dost  see,  thou  knave,  my  horse's  plight  ? 
Fairies  have  ridden  him  all  the  night, 

And  left  him  in  a  foam ! 
I  trust  that  soon  a  conjuring  band, 
With  English  cross  and  blazing  brand, 
Shall  drive  the  devils  from  this  land 

To  their  infernal  home ; 
For  in  this  haunted  den,  I  trow, 
All  night  they  trampled  to  and  fro.' 
The  laughing  host  looked  on  the  hire  : 
'  Gramercy,  gentle  southern  squire, 
And  if  thou  com'st  among  the  rest, 
With  Scottish  broadsword  to  be  blest, 
Sharp  be  the  brand,  and  sure  the  blow, 
And  short  the  pang  to  undergo.' 
Here  stayed  their  talk,  for  Marmion 
Gave  now  the  signal  to  set  on. 
The  Palmer  showing  forth  the  way, 
They  journeyed  all  the  morning-day. 

IV. 

The  greensward  way  was  smooth  and  good. 
Through  Humbie's  and  through  Saltoun's 

wood; 
A  forest  glade,  which,  varying  still, 
Here  gave  a  view  of  dale  and  hill, 
There  narrower  closed  till  overhead 
A  vaulted  screen  the  branches  made. 
P  A  pleasant  path,'  Fitz-Eustace  said  ; 
1  Such  as  where  errant-knights  might  see 
Adventures  of  high  chivalry, 
Might  meet  some  damsel  flying  fast, 
WTih  hair  unbound  and  looks  aghast ; 
And  smooth  and  level  course  were  here, 
In  her  defence  to  break  a  spear. 


MARMIO& 


IOI 


Here,  too,  are  twilight  nooks  and  dells ; 
And  oft  in  such,  the  story  tells. 
The  damsel  kind,  from  danger  freed, 
Did  grateful  pay  her  champion's  meed.' 
He  spoke  to  cheer  Lord  Maimion  s  mind, 
Perchance  to  show  his  lore  designed ; 

For  Eustace  much  had  pored 
Upon  a  huge  romantic  tome, 
In  the  hall-window  of  his  home, 
Imprinted  at  the  antique  dome 

. Of  Caxton  or  de  Worde. 

Therefore  he  spoke, — but  spoke  in  vain. 
For  Marmiou  answered  nought  again. 


Now  sudden,  distant  trumpets  shrilL 
In  notes  prolonged  by  wood  and  hill, 

Were  heard  to  echo  far: 
Each  ready  archer  grasped  his  bow, 
But  by  the  flourish  soon  they  know 

They  breathed  no  point  of  war. 
Yet  cautious,  as  in  foeman's  land. 
Lord  Mannion's  order  speeds  the  band 

Some  opener  ground  to  gain : 
And  scarce  a  furlong  had  they  rode, 
When  thinner  trees  receding  showed 

A  little  woodland  plain- 
Just  in  that  advantageous  glade 
The  halting  troop  a  line  had  made, 
As  forth  from  the  opposing  shade 

Issued  a  gallant  train. 


First  came  the  trumpets,  at  whose  clang 

So  late  the  forest  echoes  rang ; 

On  prancing  steeds  they  forward  pressed, 

With  scarlet  mantle,  azure  vest : 

Each  at  his  trump  a  banner  wore, 

Which  Scotland's  royal  scutcheon  bore  : 

Heralds  and  pursuivants,  by  name 

Bute,  Islay,  Marchmount,  Rothsay.  came. 

In  painted  tabards,  proudly  showing 

Gules,  argent,  or,  and  azure  glowing. 

Attendant  on  a  king-at-arms, 
Whose  hand  the  armorial  truncheon  held 
That  feudal  strife  had  often  quelled 

When  wildest  its  alarms. 


He  was  a  man  of  middle  age. 

In  aspect  manly,  grave,  and  sage. 

As  on  king's  errand  come  : 
But  in  the  glances  of  his  eve 
A  penetrating,  keen,  and  sly 

Expression  found  its  home  : 
The  flash  of  that  satiric  rage 
WTiich,  bursting  on  the  early  stage. 
Branded  the  vices  of  the  age. 

And  broke  the  keys  of  Rome. 
On  milk-white  palfrey  forth  he  paced : 
His  cap  of  maintenance  was  graced 

With  the  proud  heron-plume. 
From  his  steed's  shoulder,  loin,  and  breast. 


102 


SCO  JT.'S'POE TICAL    WORKS. 


Silk  housings  swept  the  ground, 
With  Scotland's  arms,  device,  and  crest. 

Embroidered  round  and  round. 
The  double  tressure  might  you  see, 

First  by  Achaius  borne, 
The  thistle  and  the  fleur-de-lis, 

And  gallant  unicorn. 
So  bright  the  king's  armorial  coat 
That  scarce  the  dazzled  eye  could  note, 
In  living  colors  blazoned  brave, 
The  Lion,  which  his  title  gave ; 


Their  mutual  greetings  duly  made, 
The  Lion  thus  his  message  said  :  — 
'Though  Scotland's  Kinghath  deeply  swort 
Ne'er  to  knit  faith  with  Henry  more, 
And  strictly  hath  forbid  resort 
From  England  to  his  royal  court, 
Yet,  for  he  knows  Lord  Mamion's  name 
And  honors  much  his  warlike  fame, 
My  liege  hath  deemed  it  shame  and  lack 
Of  courtesy  to  turn  him  back ; 
And  by  his'  order  I,  your  guide, 


A  train,  which  well  beseemed  his  state, 
But  all  unarmed,  around  him  wait. 
Still  is  thy  name  in  high  account, 
And  still  thy  verse  has  charms, 
Sir  David  Lindesay  of  the  Mount, 
Lord  Lion  King-at-arms ! 

VIII. 

Down  from  his  horse  did  Marmion  spring 

Soon  as  he  saw  the  Lion-King ; 

For  well  the  stately  baron  knew 

To  him  such  courtesy  was  due 

Whom  royal  James  himself  had  crowned, 

And  on  his  temples  placed  the  round 

Of  Scotland's  ancient  diadem, 
And  wet  his  brow  with  hallowed  wine, 
And  on  his  finger  given  to  shine 

The  emblematic  gem. 


Must  lodging  fit  and  fair  provide 

Till  finds  King  James  meet  time  to  see 

The  flower  of  English  chivalry.' 

IX. 

Though  inly  chafed  at  this  delay, 
Lord  Marmion  bears  it  as  he  may. 
The  Palmer,  his  mysterious  guide, 
Beholding  thus  his  place  supplied, 

Sought  to  take  leave  in  vain ; 
Strict  was  the  Lion-King's  command 
That  none  who  rode  in  Marmion's  band 

Should  sever  from  the  train. 
*  England  has  here  enow  of  spies 
In  Lady  Heron's  witching  eyes  :  ' 
To  Marchmount  thus  apart  he  said, 
But  fair  pretext  to  Marmion  made. 
The  right-hand  path  they  now  decline, 
And  trace  against,  the  stream  the  Tyne. 


MARMION. 


103 


At  length  up  that  wild  dale  they  wind, 
Where  Crichtoun  Castle  crowns  the  bank ; 

For  there  the  Lion's  care  assigned 
A  lodging  meet  for  Marmion's  rank. 


That  castle  rises  on  the  steep 
Of  the  green  vale  of  Tyne ; 
And  far  beneath,  where  slow  they  creep 
From  pool  to  eddy,  dark  and  deep, 
Where  alders  moist  and  willows  weep, 


104 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL   WORKS. 


You  hear  her  streams  repine. 
The  towers  in  different  ages  rose, 
Their  various  architecture  shows 

The  builders'  various  hands  ; 
A  mighty  mass,  that  could  oppose, 
When  deadliest  hatred  fired  its  foes. 

The  vengeful  Douglas  bands. 


Crichtoun  !  though  now  thy  miry  court 

But  pens  the  lazy  steer  and  sheep, 

Thy  turrets  rude  and  tottered  keep 
Have  been  the  minstrel's  loved  resort. 
Oft  have  I  traced,  within  thy  fort, 

Of  mouldering  shields  the  mystic  sense. 

Scutcheons  of  honor  or  pretence, 
Quartered  in  old  armorial  sort, 

Remains  of  rude  magnificence. 
Nor  wholly  yet  hath  time  defaced 

Thy  lordly  gallery  fair, 
Nor  yet  the  stony  cord  unbraced 
Whose  twisted  knots,  with  roses  laced, 

Adorn  thy  ruined  stair. 
Still  rises  unimpaired  below 
The  court-yard's  graceful  portico  ; 
Above  its  cornice,  row  and  row 
Of  fair  hewn  facets  richly  show 

Their  pointed  diamond  form, 
Though  there  but  houseless  cattle  go, 

To  shield  them  from  the  storm. 
And,  shuddering,  still  may  we  explore, 

Where  oft  whilom  were  captives  pent, 
The  darkness  of  thy  Massy  More, 

Or,  from  thy  grass-grown  battlement, 
May  trace  in  undulating  line 
The  sluggish  mazes  of  the  Tyne. 

XII. 

Another  aspect  Crichtoun  showed 

As  through  its  portal  Marmion  rode  ; 

But  yet  't  was  melancholy  state 

Received  him  at  the  outer  gate, 

For  none  were  in  the  castle  then 

But  women,  boys,  or  aged  men. 

With  eyes  scarce  dried,  the  sorrowing  dame 

To  welcome  noble  Marmion  came ; 

Her  son,  a  stripling  twelve  years  old, 

Proffered  the  baron's  rein  to  hold  ; 

For  each  man  that  could  draw  a  sword 

Had  marched  that  morning  with  their  lord, 

Earl  Adam  Hepburn,  — he  who  died 

On  Flodden  by  his  sovereign's  side. 

Long  may  his  lady  look  in  vain  ! 

She  ne'er  shall  see  his  gallant  train 

Come   sweeping  back  through  Crichtoun- 

Dean. 
'T  was  a  brave  race  before  the  name 
Of  hated  Bothwell  stained  their  fame. 


XIII. 

And  here  two  days  did  Marmion  rest, 
With  every  right  that  honor  claims, 
Attended  as  the  king's  own  guest ;  — 
Such  the  command  of  Royal  James, 
Who  marshalled  then  his  land's  array, 
Upon  the  Borough-moor  that  lay. 
Perchance  he  would  not  foeman's  eye 
Upon  his  gathering  host  should  pry, 
Till  full  prepared  was  every  band 
To  march  against  the  English  land. 
Here  while  they  dwelt,  did  Lindesay's  wit 
Oft  cheer  the  baron's  moodier  fit ; 
And,  in  his  turn,  he  knew  to  prize 
Lord  Marmion's  powerful  mind  and  wise,  — 
Trained  in  the  lore  of  Rome  and  Greece, 
And  policies  of  war  and  peace. 


It  chanced,  as  fell  the  second  night, 

That  on  the  battlements  they  walked, 
And  by  the  slowly  fading  light' 

Of  varying  topics  talked  ; 
And,  unaware,  the  herald-bard 
Said  Marmion  might  his  toil  have  spared 

In  travelling  so  far, 
For  that  a  messenger  from  heaven 
In  vain  to  James  had  counsel  given 

Against  the  English  war ; 
And,  closer  questioned,  thus  he  told 
A  tale  which  chronicles  of  old 
In  Scottish  story  have  enrolled  :  — 

xv. 

Sir  ©atoiU  Etntiesag's  (Talc. 

1  Of  all  the  palaces  so  fair, 

Built  for  the  royal  dwelling 
In  Scotland,  far  beyond  compare 

Linlithgow  is  excelling ; 
And  in  its  park,  in  jovial  June, 
How  sweet  the  merry  linnet's  tune, 

How  blithe  the  blackbird's  lay  ! 
The  wild  buck  bells  from  ferny  brake, 
The  coot  dives  merry  on  the  lake, 
The  saddest  heart  might  pleasure  take 

To  see  all  nature.gay. 
But  June  is  to  our  sovereign  dear 
The  heaviest  month  in  all  the  year; 
Too  well  his  cause  of  grief  you  know, 
June  saw  his  father's  overthrow. 
Woe  to  the  traitors  who  could  bring 
The  princely  boy  against  his  king ! 
Still  in  his  conscience  burns  the  sting. 
In  offices  as  strict  as  Lent 
King  James's  June  is  ever  spent. 

XVI. 

'  When  last  this  ruthful  month  was  come, 
And  in  Linlithgow's  holy  dome 


M ARM  ION. 


05 


The  king,  as  wont,  was  praying; 
While  for  his  royal  father's  soul 
The  chanters  sung,  the  bells  did  toll, 

The  bishop  mass  was  saying  — 
For  now  the  year  brought  round  again 
The  day  the  luckless  king  was  slain  — 
In  Catherine's  aisle  the  monarch  knelt, 
With  sackcloth  shirt  and  iron  belt, 

And  eyes  with  sorrow  streaming ; 
Around  him  in  their  stalls  of  state 
The  Thistle's  Knight-Companions  sate, 

Their  banners  o'er  them  beaming. 
I  too  was  there,  and,  sooth  to  tell, 
Bedeafened  with  the  jangling  knell, 
Was  watching  where  the  sunbeams  fell, 

Through   the   stained   casement    gleam- 
But  while  I  marked  what  next  befell 

It  seemed  as  I  were  dreaming. 
Stepped  from  the  crowd  a  ghostly  wight, 
In  azure  gown,  with  cincture  white  ; 
His  forehead  bald,  his  head  was  bare, 
Down  hung  at  length  his  yellow  hair.  — 
Now,  mock  me  not  when,  good  my  lord, 
I  pledge  to  you  my  knightly  word 
That  when  I  saw  his  placid  grace, 
His  simple  majesty  of  face, 
His  solemn  bearing,  and  his  pace 

So  stately  gliding  on,  — 
Seemed  to  me  ne'er  did  limner  paint 
So  just  an  image  of  the  saint 
Who  propped  the  Virgin  in  her  faint, 

The  loved  Apostle  John  ! 


XVII. 

'  He  stepped  before  the  monarch's  chair, 
And  stood  with  rustic  plainness  there, 

And  little  reverence  made  ; 
Nor  head,  nor  body,  bowed,  nor  bent. 
But  on  the  desk  his  arm  he  leant, 

And  words  like  these  he  said, 
In  a  low  voice,  — but  never  tone 
So  thrilled  through  vein,  and  nerve 

bone : — 
"  My  mother  sent  me  from  afar, 
Sir  King,  to  warn  thee  not  to  war,  — 

Woe  waits  on  thine  array  ; 
If  war  thou  wilt,  of  woman  fair, 
Her  witching  wiles  and  wanton  snare, 
James  Stuart,  doubly  warned,  beware  : 

God  keep  thee  as  he  may  ! "  — 
The  wondering  monarch  seemed  to  seek 

For  answer,  and  found  none  ; 
And  when  he  raised  his  head  to  speak. 

The  monitor  was  gone. 
The  marshal  and  myself  had  cast 
To  stop  him  as  he  outward  passed ; 
But,  lighter  than  the  whirlwind's  blast, 

He  vanished  from  our  eyes, 
Like  sunbeam  on  the  billow  cast, 

That  glances  but,  and  dies.' 


XVIII. 

While  Lindesay  told  his  marvel  strange 

The  twilight  was  so  pale. 
He  marked  not  Marmion's  color  change 


and 


io6 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL    WORKS. 


While  listening  to  the  tale ; 
But,  after  a  suspended  pause, 
The  baron  spoke  :  '  Of  Nature's  laws 

So  strong  I  held  the  force, 
That  never  superhuman  cause 

Could  e'er  control  their  course, 
And,  three  days  since,  had  judged  your  aim 
Was  but  to  make  your  guest  your  game  : 
But  I  have  seen,  since  past  the  Tweed, 
What  much  has  changed  my  sceptic  creed, 
And  made  me  credit  aught'  —  He  stayed, 
And  seemed  to  wish  his  words  unsaid, 
But,  by  that  strong  emotion  pressed 
Which  prompts  us  to  unload  our  breast 

Even  when  discovery 's  pain, 
To  Lindesay  did  at  length  unfold 
The  tale  his  village  host  had  told, 

At  Gifford,  to  his  train. 
Nought  of  the  Palmer  says  he  there, 
And  nought  of  Constance  or  of  Clare  ; 
The   thoughts  which   broke   his  sleep   he 

seems 
To  mention  but  as  feverish  dreams. 

XIX. 

1  In  vain,'  said  he,  '  to  rest  I  spread 

My  burning  limbs,  and  couched  my  head  ; 

Fantastic  thoughts  returned, 
And,  by  their  wild  dominion  led, 

My  heart  within  me  burned. 
So  sore  was  the  delirious  goad, 
I  took  my,  steed  and  forth  I  rode, 
And,  as  the  moon  shone  bright  and  cold, 
Soon  reached  the  camp  upon  the  wold. 
The  southern  entrance  I  passed  through, 
And  halted,  and  my  bugle  blew. 
Methought  an  answer  met  my  ear,  — 
Yet  was  the  blast  so  low  and  drear, 
So  hollow,  and  so  faintly  blown, 
It  might  be  echo  of  my  own. 

XX. 

1  Thus  judging,  for  a  little  space 
I  listened  ere  I  left  the  place, 

But  scarce  could  trust  my  eyes, 
Nor  yet  can  think  they  serve  me  true, 
When  sudden  in  the  ring  I  view, 
In  form  distinct  of  shape  and  hue, 

A  mounted  champion  rise.  — 
I  've  fought,  Lord-Lion,  many  a  day, 
In  single  fight  and  mixed  affray, 
And  ever,  I  myself  may  say, 

Have  borne  me  as  a  knight; 
But  when  this  unexpected  foe 
Seemed  starting  from  the  gulf  below,  — 
I  care  not  though  the  truth  I  show,  — 

I  trembled  with  affright ; 
And  as  I  placed  in  rest  my  spear, 
My  hand  so  shook  for  very  fear, 

I  scarce  could  couch  it  right. 


XXI. 

'Why  need  my  tongue  the  issue  tell? 
We  ran  our  course,—  my  charger  fell ;  — 
What  could  he  'gainst  the  shock  of  hell  ? 

I  rolled  upon  the  plain. 
High  o'er  my  head  with  threatening  hand 
The  spectre  shook  his  naked  brand,  — 

Yet  did  the  worst  remain  : 
My  dazzled  eyes  I  upward  cast,  — 
Not  opening  hell  itself  could  blast 

Their  sight  like  what  I  saw  ! 
Full  on  his  face  the  moonbeam  strook  !  — 
A  face  could  never  be  mistook  ! 
I  knew  the  stern  vindictive  look, 

And  held  my  breath  for  awe. 
I  saw  the  face  of  one  who,  fled 
,  To  foreign  climes,  has  long  been  dead,  — 

I  well  believe  the  last ; 
For  ne'er  from  visor  raised  did  stare 
A  human  warrior  with  a  glare 

So  grimly  and  so  ghast. 
Thrice  o'er  my  head  he  shook  the  blade ; 
But  when  to  good  Saint  George  I  prayed,  — 
The  first  time  e'er  I  asked  his  aid,  — 

He  plunged  it  in  the  sheath, 
And,  on  his  courser  mounting  light, 
He  seemed  to  vanish  from  my  sight : 
The  moonbeam  drooped,  and  deepest  night 

Sunk  down  upon  the  heath. — 
'T  were  long  to  tell  what  cause  I  have 

To  know  his  face  that  met  me  there, 
Called  by  his  hatred  from  the  grave 

To  cumber  upper  air ; 
Dead  or  alive,  good  cause  had  he 
To  be  my  mortal  enemy.' 

XXII. 

Marvelled  Sir  David  of  the  Mount ; 
Then,  learned  in  story,  gan  recount 

Such  chance  had  happed  of  old, 
When  once,  near  Norham,  there  did  fight 
A  spectre  fell  of  fiendish  might, 
In  likeness  of  a  Scottish  knight, 

With  Brian  Bulmer  bold, 
And  trained  him  nigh  to  disallow 
The  aid  of  his  baptismal  vow. 
'  And  such  a  phantom,  too,  't  is  said, 
With     Highland    broadsword,    targe,    and 
plaid, 

And  fingers  red  with  gore, 
Is  seen  in  Rothiemurcus  glade, 
Or  where  the  sable  pine-trees  shade 
Dark  Tomantoul,  and  Auchnaslaid, 

Dromouchty,  or  Glenmore. 
And  yet,  whate'er  such  legends  say 
Of  warlike  demon,  ghost,  or  fay, 

On  mountain,  moor,  or  plain, 
Spotless  in  faith,  in  bosom  bold, 
True  son  of  chivalry  should  hold 

These  midnight  terrors  vain  ; 


M ARM  ION. 


07 


For  seldom  have  such  spirits  power 
To  harm,  save  in  the  evil  hour 
When  guilt  we  meditate  within 
Or  harbor  unrepented  sin.'  — 
Lord  Marmion  turned  him  half  aside. 


And  twice  to  clear  his  voice  he  tried, 
Then  pressed  Sir  David's  hand,  — 
But  nought,  at  length,  in  answer  said  : 
And  here  their  further  converse  stayed, 
Each  ordering  that  his  band 


io8 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL   WORKS. 


Should  bowne  them  with  the  rising  day, 
To  Scotland's  camp  to  take  their  way,  — 
Such  was  the  king's  command. 

XXIII. 

Early  they  took  Dun-Edin's  road, 
And  I  could  trace  each  step  they  trode  ; 
Hill,  brook,  nor  dell,  nor  rock,  nor  stone, 
Lies  on  the  path  to  me  unknown. 
Much  might  it  boast  of  storied  lore  ; 
But,  passing  such  digression  o'er, 
Suffice  it  that  their  route  was  laid 


Now,  from  the  summit  to  the  plain, 
Waves  all  the  hill  with  yellow  grain  ; 

And  o'er  the  landscape  as  I  look, 
Nought  do  I  see  unchanged  remain, 

Save  the  rude  cliffs  and  chiming  brook. 
To  me  they  make  a  heavy  moan 
Of  early  friendships  past  and  gone. 

xxv. 
But  different  far  the  change  has  been, 

Since  Marmion  from  the  crown 
Of  Blackford  saw  that  martial  scene 


Across  the  furzy  hills  of  Braid. 
They  passed  the  glen  and  scanty  rill. 
And  climbed  the  opposing  bank,  until 
They  gained  the  top  of  Blackford  Hill. 


Blackford!  on  whose  uncultured  breast, 
Among  the  broom  and  thorn  and  whin, 

A  truant-boy,  I  sought  the  nest, 

Or  listed,  as  I  lay  at  rest, 
While  rose  on  breezes  thin 

The  murmur  of  the  city  crowd, 

And,  from  his  steeple  jangling  loud, 
Saint  Giles's  mingling  din. 


Upon  the  bent  so  brown  : 
Thousand  pavilions,  white  as  snow, 
Spread  all  the  Borough-moor  below, 

Upland,  and  dale,  and  down. 
A  thousand  did  I  say  ?     I  ween, 
Thousands  on  thousands  there  were  seen, 
That  checkered  all  the  heath  between 

The  streamlet  and  the  town, 
In  crossing  ranks  extending  far, 
Forming  a  camp  irregular ; 
Oft  giving  way  where  still  there  stood 
Some  relics  of  the  old  oak  wood, 
That  darkly  huge  did  intervene 
And  tamed  the  glaring  white  with  green  : 


M ARM  ION. 


09 


In  these  extended  lines  there  lay 
A  martial  kingdom's  vast  array. 

XXVI. 

For  from  Hebudes,  dark  with  rain, 
To  eastern  Lodon's  fertile  plain, 
And  from  the  southern  Redswire  edge 
To  furthest  Rosse's  rocky  ledge, 
From  west  to  east,  from  south  to  north, 
Scotland  sent  all  her  warriors  forth. 
Marmion  might  hear  the  mingled  hum 
Of  myriads  up  the  mountain  come,  — 
The  horses'  tramp  and  tinkling  clank, 
Where  chiefs  reviewed  their  vassal  rank, 

And  charger's  shrilling  neigh,  — 
And  see  the  shifting  lines  advance, 
While   frequent  flashed   from   shield   and 
lance 

The  sun's  reflected  ray. 

XXVII. 

Thin  curling  in  the  morning  air, 
The  wreaths  of  failing  smoke  declare 
To  embers  now  the  brands  decayed, 
Where  the  night-watch  their  fires  had  made. 
They  saw,  slow  rolling  on  the  plain, 
Full  many  a  baggage-cart  and  wain, 


And  dire  artillery's  clumsy  car, 

By  sluggish  oxen  tugged  to  war ; 

And  there  were  Borthwick's  Sisters  Seven, 

And  culverins  which  France  had  given. 

Ill-omened  gift  !  the  guns  remain 

The  conqueror's  spoil  on  Flodden  plain. 

XXVIII. 

Nor  marked  they  less  where  in  the  air 
A  thousand  streamers  flaunted  fair  ; 
Various  in  shape,  device,  and  hue, 
Green,  sanguine,  purple,  red,  and  blue, 
Broad,  narrow,  swallow-tailed,  and  square, 
Scroll,  pennon,  pencil,  bandrol,  there 

O'er  the  pavilions  flew. 
Highest  and  midmost,  was  descried 
The  royal  banner  floating  wide  ; 

The  staff,  a  pine-tree,  strong  and  straight, 
Pitched  deeply  in  a  massive  stone, 
Which  still  in  memory  is  shown, 
Yet  bent  beneath  the  standard's  weight, 
Whene'er  the  western  wind  unrolled 
With    toil    the    huge    and  cumbrous 
fold, 
And  gave  to  view  the  dazzling  field, 
Where  in  proud  Scotland's  royal  shield 
The  ruddy  lion  ramped  in  gold. 


no 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


XXIX. 

Lord  Marmion  viewed  the  landscape  bright, 
He  viewed  it  with  a  chief's  delight, 

Until  within  him  burned  his  heart, 

And  lightning  from  his  eye  did  part, 
As  on  the  battle-day  ; 

Such  glance  did  falcon  never  dart 
When  stooping  on  his  prey. 
'  Oh  !  well,  Lord-Lion,  hast  thou  said, 
Thy  king  from  warfare  to  dissuade 

Were  but  a  vain  essay  ; 
For,  by  Saint  George,  were  that  host  mine, 
Not  power  infernal  nor  divine 
Should  once  to  peace  my  soul  incline, 
Till  I  had  dimmed  their  armor's  shine 

In  glorious  battle-fray  ! ' 
Answered  the  bard,  of  milder  mood : 
' Fair  is  the  sight,  —  and  yet  'twere  good 

That  kings  would  think  withal, 
When  peace  and  wealth  their  land  has  blessed, 
'T  is  better  to  sit  still  at  rest 

Than  rise,  perchance  to  fall.' 

XXX. 

Still  on  the  spot  Lord  Marmion  stayed, 
For  fairer  scene  he  ne'er  surveyed. 
When  sated  with  the  martial  show 
That  peopled  all  the  plain  below, 
The  wandering  eye  could  o'er  it  go, 
And  mark  the  distant  city  glow 

With  gloomy  splendor  red  ; 
For  on  the  smoke-wreaths,  huge  and  slow, 
That  round  her  sable  turrets  flow, 

The  morning  beams  were  shed, 
And  tinged  them  with  a  lustre  proud, 
Like  that  which  streaks  a  thunder-cloud. 
Such  dusky  grandeur  clothed  the  height 
Where  the  huge  castle  holds  its  state, 

And  all  the  steep  slope  down, 
Whose  ridgy  back  heaves  to  the  sky, 
Piled  deep  and  massy,  close  and  high, 

Mine  own  romantic  town  ! 
But  northward  far,  with  purer  blaze, 
On  Ochil  mountains  fell  the  rays, 
And  as  each  heathy  top  they  kissed, 
It  gleamed  a  purple  amethyst. 
Yonder  the  shores  of  Fife  you  saw, 
Here  Preston-Bay  and  Berwick-Law  ; 

And,  broad  between  them  rolled, 
The  gallant  Firth  the  eye  might  note, 
Whose  islands  on  its  bosom  float, 

Like  emeralds  chased  in  gold. 
Fitz-Eustace'  heart  felt  closely  pent; 
As  if  to  give  his  rapture  vent, 
The  spur  he  to  his  charger  lent, 

And  raised  his  bridle  hand, 
And  making  demi-volt  in  air, 
Cried,  '  Where 's   the  coward  that   would 
not  dare 

To  fight  for  such  a  land  ! 


The  Lindesay  smiled  his  joy  to  see, 
Nor  Marmion's  frown  repressed  his  glee. 

XXXI. 

Thus  while  they  looked,  a  flourish  proud. 
Where  mingled  trump,  and  clarion  loud, 

And  fife,  and  kettle-drum, 
And  sackbut  deep,  and  psaltery, 
And  war-pipe  with  discordant  cry, 
And  cymbal-  clattering  to  the  sky, 
Making  wild  music  bold  and  high, 

Did  up  the  mountain  come  ;   • 
The  whilst  the  bells  with  distant  chime 
Merrily  tolled  the  hour  of  prime, 

And  thus  the  Lindesay  spoke  : 
'  Thus  clamor  still  the  war-notes  when 
The  king  to  mass  his  way  has  ta'en. 
Or  to  Saint  Catherine's  of  Sienne, 

Or  Chapel  of  Saint  Rocque. 
To  you  they  speak  of  martial  fame, 
But  me  remind  of  peaceful  game, 

When  blither  was  their  cheer, 
Thrilling  in  Falkland-woods  the  air, 
In  signal  none  his  steed  should  spare, 
But  strive  which  foremost  might  repair 

To  the  downfall  of  the  deer. 

XXXII. 

'  Nor  less,'  he  said,  '  when  looking  forth 
I  view  yon  Empress  of  the  North 

Sit  on  her  hilly  throne, 
Her  palace's  imperial  bowers, 
Her  castle,  proof  to  hostile  powers, 
Her  stately  halls  and  holy  towers  — 

Nor  less,'  he  said,  '  I  moan 
To  think  what  woe  mischance  may  bring, 
And  how  these  merry  bells  may  ring 
The  death-dirge  of  our  gallant  king, 

Or  with  their  larum  call 
The  burghers  forth  to  watch  and  ward, 
'Gainst  Southern  sack  and  fires  to  guard 

Dun-Edin's  leaguered  wall.  — 
But  not  for  my  presaging  thought, 
Dream  conquest  sure  or  cheaply  bought ! 

Lord  Marmion,  I  say  nay : 
God  is  the  guider  of  the  field, 
He  breaks  the  champion's  spear  and  shield  ; 

But  thou  thyself  shalt  say, 
When  joins  yon  host  in  deadly  stowre, 
That  England's  dames  must  weep  in  bower, 

Her  monks  the  death-mass  sing ; 
For  never  saw'st  thou  such  a  power 

Led  on  by  such  a  king.' 
And  now,  down  winding  to  the  plain, 
The  barriers  of  the  camp  they  gain, 

And  there  they  made  a  stay.  — 
There  stays  the  Minstrel,  till  he  fling 
His  hand  o'er  every  Border  string, 
And  fit  his  harp  the  pomp  to  sing 
Of  Scotland's  ancient  court  and  king, 

In  the  succeeding  lay. 


MARMION. 


I  H 


iHarmiou. 


INTRODUCTION   TO   CANTO   FIFTH. 
To  GEORGE  ELLIS,  ESQ. 

Edinburgh . 

When  dark  December  glooms  the  day, 
And  takes  our  autumn  joys  away ; 
When  short  and  scant  the  sunbeam  throws 
Upon  the  weary  waste  of  snows 
A  cold  and  profitless  regard, 
Like  patron  on  a  needy  bard  ; 
When  sylvan  occupation  's  done, 
And  o'er  the  chimney  rests  the  gun, 
And  hang  in  idle  trophy  near, 
The  game-pouch,  fishing-rod,  and  spear  ; 
When  wiry  terrier,  rough  and  grim, 
And  greyhound,  with  his  length  of  limb, 
And  pointer,  now  employed  no  more, 
Cumber  our  parlor's  narrow  floor ; 
When  in  his  stall  the  impatient  steed 
Is  long  condemned  to  rest  and  feed  ; 
When  from  our  snow-encircled  home 
Scarce  cares  the  hardiest  step  to  roam, 
Since  path  is  none,  save  that  to  bring 
The  needful  water  from  the  spring  ; 
When  wrinkled  news-page,  thrice  conned 

o'er, 
Beguiles  the  dreary  hour  no  more, 
And  darkling  politician,  crossed, 
Inveighs  against  the  lingering  post, 
And  answering  housewife  sore  complains 
Of  carriers'  snow-impeded  wains  ;  — 
When  such  the  country-cheer,  I  come 
Well  pleased  to  seek  our  city  home ; 
For  converse  and  for  books  to  change 
The  Forest's  melancholy  range, 
And  welcome  with  renewed  delight 
The  busy  day  and  social  night. 

Not  here  need  my  desponding  rhyme 
Lament  the  ravages  of  time, 
As*  erst  by  Newark's  riven  towers, 
And  Ettrick  stripped  of  forest  bowers. 
True,  Caledonia's  Queen  is  changed 
Since  on  her  dusky  summit  ranged, 


Within  its  steepy  limits  pent?* 
By  bulwark,  line,  and  battlement, 
And  flanking  towers,  and  laky  flood, 
Guarded  and  garrisoned  she  stood, 
Denying  entrance  or  resort 
Save  at  each  tall  embattled  port, 
Above  whose  arch,  suspended,  hung 
Portcullis  spiked  with  iron  prong. 
That  long  is  gone,  —  but  not  so  long 
Since,  early  closed  and  opening  late, 
Jealous  revolved  the  studded  gate, 
Whose  task,  from  eve  to  morning  tide, 
A  wicket  churlishly  supplied. 
Stern  then  and  steel-girt  was  thy  brow, 
Dun-Edin  !  Oh,  how  altered  now, 
When  safe  amid  thy  mountain  court 
Thou  sitt'st,  like  empress  at  her  sport, 
And  liberal,  unconfined,  and  free, 
Flinging  thy  white  arms  to  the  sea, 
For  thy  dark  cloud,  with  umbered  lower, 
That  hung  o'er  cliff  and  lake  and  tower, 
Thou  gleam'st  against  the  western  ray 
Ten  thousand  lines  of  brighter  day  ! 

Not  she,  the  championess  of  old, 
In  Spenser's  magic  tale  enrolled, 
She  for  the  charmed  spear  renowned, 
Which   forced  each    knight    to    kiss    the 

ground,  — 
Not  she  more  changed,  when,  placed  at  rest, 
What  time  she  was  Malbecco's  guest, 
She  gave  to  flow  her  maiden  vest ; 
When,  from  the  corselet's  grasp  relieved, 
Free  to  the  sight  her  bosom  heaved  : 
Sweet  was  her  blue  eye's  modest  smile. 
Erst  hidden  by  the  aventayle, 
And  down  her  shoulders  graceful  rolled 
Her  locks  profuse  of  paly  gold. 
They  who  whilom  in  midnight  fight 
Had  marvelled  at  her  matchless  might, 
No  less  her  maiden  charms  approved, 
But  looking  liked,  and  liking  loved. 
The  sight  could  jealous  pangs  beguile, 
And  charm  Malbecco's  cares  awhile ; 
And  he,  the  wandering  Squire  of  Dames 
Forgot  his  Columbella's  claims, 
And  passion,  erst  unknown,  could  gain 
The  breast  of  blunt  Sir  Satyrane  ; 
Nor  durst  light  Paridell  advance, 
Bold  as  he  was,  a  looser  glance. 
She  charmed,  at  once,  and  tamed  the  heart, 
Incomparable  Britomart ! 

So  thou,  fair  City  !  disarrayed 
Of  battled  wall  and  rampart's  aid, 
As  stately  seem'st,  but  lovelier  far 
Than  in  that  panoply  of  war. 
Nor  deem  that  from  thy  fenceless  throne 
Strength  and  security  are  flown ; 
Still  as  of  yore,  Queen  of  the  North  ! 


112 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL    WORKS. 


Still  canst  thou  send  thy  children  forth. 
Ne'er  readier  at  alarm-bell's  call 
Thy  burghers  rose  to  man  thy  wall 
Than  now,  in  danger,  shall  be  thine, 
Thy  dauntless  voluntary  line  ; 
For  fosse  and  turret  proud  to  stand, 
Their  breasts  the  bulwarks  of  the  land. 
Thy  thousands,  trained  to  martial  toil, 
Full  red  would  stain  their  native  soil, 
Ere  from  thy  mural  crown  there  fell 
The  slightest  knosp  or  pinnacle. 
And  if  it  come,  as  come  it  may, 
Dun-Edin  !  that  eventful  day, 
Renowned  for  hospitable  deed, 
That  virtue  much  with  Heaven  may  plead, 
In  patriarchal  times  whose  care 
Descending  angels  deigned  to  share  ; 
That  claim  may  wrestle  blessings  down 
On  those  who  fight  for  the  Good  Town, 
Destined  in  every  age  to  be 
Refuge  of  injured  royalty ; 
Since  first,  when  conquering  York  arose, 
To  Henry  meek  she  gave  repose, 
Till  late,  with  wonder,  grief,  and  awe, 
Great  Bourbon's  relics  sad  she  saw. 

Truce  to  these  thoughts  !  —  for,  as  they 
rise, 
How  gladly  I  avert  mine  eyes, 
Bodings,  or  true  or  false,  to  change 
For  Fiction's  fair  romantic  range, 
Or  for  tradition's  dubious  light, 
That  hovers  'twixt  the  day  and  night : 
Dazzling  alternately  and  dim, 
Her  wavering  lamp  I  'd  rather  trim, 
Knights,  squires,  and  lovely  dames  to  see, 
Creation  of  my  fantasy, 
Than  gaze  abroad  on  reeky  fen, 
And  make  of  mists  invading  men.  — 
Who  loves  not  more  the  night  of  June 
Than  dull  December's  gloomy  noon  ? 
The  moonlight  than  the  fog  of  frost? 
And  can  we  say  which  cheats  the  most  ? 

But  who  shall  teach  my  harp  to  gain 
A  sound  of  the  romantic  strain 
Whose  Anglo-Norman  tones  whilere 
Could  win  the  royal  Henry's  ear, 
Famed  Beauclerk  called,  for  that  he  loved 
The  minstrel  and  his  lay  approved? 


Who  shall  these  lingering  notes  redeem, 

Decaying  on  Oblivion's  stream  ; 

Such  notes  as  from  the  Breton  tongue 

Marie  translated,  Blondel  sung?  — 

Oh  !  born  Time's  ravage  to  repair, 

And  make  the  dying  Muse  thy  care ; 

Who,  when  his  scythe  her  hoary  foe 

Was  poising  for  the  final  blow, 

The  weapon  from  his  hand  could  wring, 

And  break  his  glass  and  shear  his  wing, 

And  bid,  reviving  in  his  strain, 

The  gentle  poet  live  again  ; 

Thou,  who  canst  give  to  lightest  lay 

An  unpedantic  moral  gay, 

Nor  less  the  dullest  theme  bid  flit 

On  wings  of  unexpected  wit ; 

In  letters  as  in  life  approved, 

Example  honored  and  beloved,  — 

Dear  Ellis  !  to  the  bard  impart 

A  lesson  of  thy  magic  art, 

To  win  at  once  the  head  and  heart,  — 

At  once  to  charm,  instruct,  and  mend. 

My  guide,  my  pattern,  and  my  friend  ! 

Such  minstrel  lesson  to  bestow 
Be  long  thy  pleasing  task,  —  but,  oh  ! 
No  more  by  thy  example  teach 
What  few  can  practise,  all  can  preach,  — 
With  even  patience  to  endure 
Lingering  disease  and  painful  cure, 
And  boast  affliction's  pangs  subdued 
By  mild  and  manly  fortitude. 
Enough,  the  lesson  has  been  given : 
Forbid  the  repetition,  Heaven! 

Come  listen,  then !  for  thou  hast  known 
And  loved  the  Minstrel's  varying  tone, 
Who,  like  his  Border  sires  of  old, 
Waked  a  wild  measure  rude  and  bold, 
Till  Windsor's  oaks  and  Ascot  plain 
With  wonder  heard  the  Northern  strain. 
Come  listen  !  bold  in  thy  applause, 
The  bard  shall  scorn  pedantic  laws  ; 
And,  as  the  ancient  art  could  stain 
Achievements  on  the  storied  pane, 
Irregularly  traced  and  planned, 
But  yet  so  glowing  and  so  grand, 
So  shall  he  strive,  in  changeful  hue, 
Field,  feast,  and  combat  to  renew, 
And  loves,  and  arms,  and  harpers'  glee, 
And  all  the  pomp  of  chivalry. 


M ARM  I  ON. 


"3 


ill ar mi  on. 


CANTO     FIFTH. 


THE   COURT. 


The  train  has  left  the  hills  of  Braid  ; 
The  barrier  guard  have  open  made  — 
So  Lindesay  bade  —  the  palisade 

That  closed  the  tented  ground  ; 
Their  men  the  warders  backward  drew, 
And  carried  pikes  as  they  rode  through 

Into  its  ample  bound. 
Fast  ran  the  Scottish  warriors  there, 
Upon  the  Southern  band  to  stare, 
And  envy  with  their  v/onder  rose, 
To  see  such  well-appointed  foes  ; 
Such  length  of  shafts,  such  mighty  bows, 
So  huge  that  many  simply  thought 
But  for  a  vaunt  such  weapons  wrought, 
And  little  deemed  their  force  to  feel 
Through  links  of  mail  and  plates  of  steel 
When,  rattling  upon  Flodden  vale, 
The  cloth-yard  arrows  flew  like  hail. 


Nor  less  did  Marmion's  skilful  view 
Glance  every  line  and  squadron  through, 


And  much  he  marvelled  one  small  land 
Could  marshal  forth  such  various  band  ; 

For  men-at-arms  were  here, 
Heavily  sheathed  in  mail  and  plate, 
Like  iron  towers  for  strength  and  weight, 
On  Flemish  steeds  of  bone  and  height, 

With  battle-axe  and  spear. 
Young  knights  and  squires,  a  lighter  train, 
Practised  their  chargers  on  the  plain, 
By  aid  of  leg,  of  hand,  and  rein, 

Each  warlike  feat  to  show, 
To  pass,  to  wheel,  the  croupe  to  gain, 
And  high  curvet,  that  not  in  vain 
The  sword-sway  might  descend  amain 

On  foeman's  casque  below. 
He  saw  the  hardy  burghers  there 
March  armed  on  foot  with  faces  bare, 

For  visor  they  wore  none, 
Nor  waving  plume,  nor  crest  of  knight ; 
But  burnished  were  their  corselets  bright, 
Their  brigantines  and  gorgets  light 

Like  very  silver  shone. 
Long  pikes  they  had  for  standing  fight, 

Two-handed  swords  they  wore, 
And  many  wielded  mace  of  weight, 

And  bucklers  bright  they  bore. 

hi. 

On  foot  the  jeoman  too,  but  dressed 
In  his  steel-jack,  a  swarthy  vest. 


ii4 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL    WORKS. 


With  iron  quilted  well ; 
Each  at  his  back  —  a  slender  store  — 
His  forty  days'  provision  bore, 

As  feudal  statutes  tell. 
His  arms  were  halbert,  axe,  or  spear, 
A  crossbow  there,  a  hagbut  here, 

A  dagger-knife,  and  brand. 
Sober  he  seemed  and  sad  of  cheer, 
As  loath  to  leave  his  cottage  dear 

And  march  to  foreign  strand, 
Or  musing  who  would  guide  his  steer 

To  till  the  fallow  land. 
Yet  deem  not  in  his  thoughtful  eye 


Did  aught  of  dastard  terror  lie  ; 

More  dreadful  far  his  ire 
Than  theirs  who,  scorning  danger's  name, 
In  eager  mood  to  battle  came, 
Their  valor  like  light  straw  on  flame, 

A  fierce  but  fading  fire. 

IV. 

Not  so  the  Borderer:  — bred  to  war, 
He  knew  the  battle's  din  afar, 

And  joyed  to  hear  it  swell. 
His  peaceful  day  was  slothful  ease  ; 
Nor  harp  nor  pipe  his  ear  could  please 

Like  the  loud  slogan  yell. 
On  active  steed,  with  lance  and  blade, 
The  light-armed  pricker  plied  his  trade,  — 

Let  nobles  fight  for  fame ; 
Let  vassals  follow  where  they  lead, 
Burghers,  to  guard  their  townships,  bleed, 

But  war  's  the  Borderers'  game. 


Their  gain,  their  glory,  their  delight, 
To  sleep  the  day,  maraud  the  night, 

O'er  mountain,  moss,  and  moor ; 
Joyful  to  fight  they  took  their  way, 
Scarce  caring  who  might  win  the  day, 

Their  booty  was  secure. 
These,  as  Lord  Marmion's  train  passed  by. 
Looked  on  at  first  with  careless  eye, 
Nor  marvelled  aught,  well  taught  to  know 
The  form  and  force  of  English  bow. 
But  when  they  saw  the  lord  arrayed 
In  splendid  arms  and  rich  brocade, 
Each  Borderer  to  his  kinsman  said,  — 

'  Hist,  Ringan  !  seest  thou  there  ! 
Canst  guess  which  road  they  '11  homeward 

ride  ? 
Oh  !  could  we  but  on  Border  side, 
By  Eusedale  glen,«or  Liddell's  tide, 

Beset  a  prize  so  fair  ! 
That  fangless  Lion,  too,  their  guide, 
Might  chance  to  lose  his  glistering  hide  ; 
Brown  Maudlin  of  that  doublet  pied 

Could  make  a  kirtle  rare.' 


v. 

Next,  Marmion  marked  the  Celtic  race, 
Of  different  language,  form,  and  face, 

A  various  race  of  man ; 
Just  then  the  chiefs  their  tribes  arrayed, 
And  wild  and  garish  semblance  made 
The  checkered  trews  and  belted  plaid, 
And  varying  notes  the  war-pipes  brayed 

To  every  varying  clan. 
Wild  through  their  red  or  sable  hair 
Looked  out  their  eyes  with  savage  stare 

On  Marmion  as  he  passed ; 
Their  legs  above  the  knee  were  bare ; 
Their  frame  was  sinewy,  short,  and  spare, 

And  hardened  to  the  blast ; 
Of  taller  race,  the  chiefs  they  own 
Were  by  the  eagle's  plumage  known. 
The  hunted  red-deer's  undressed  hide 
Their  hairy  buskins  well  supplied ; 
The  graceful  bonnet  decked  their  head ; 
Back  from  their  shoulders  hung  the  plaid  ; 
A  broadsword  of  unwieldy  length, 
A  dagger  proved  for  edge  and  strength, 

A  studded  targe  they  wore, 
And  quivers,  bows,  and  shafts,  —  but,  oh  ! 
Short  was  the  shaft  and  weak  the  bow 

To  that  which  England  bore. 
The  Isles-men  carried  at  their  backs 
The  ancient  Danish  battle-axe. 
They  raised  a  wild  and  wondering  cry, 
As  with  his  guide  rode  Marmion  by. 
Loud   were    their    clamoring   tongues,    as 

when 
The  clanging  sea-fowl  leave  the  fen, 
And,  with  their  cries  discordant  mixed, 
Grumbled  and  yelled  the  pipes  betwixt. 


MARMION. 


15 


VI. 

Thus    through    the    Scottish    camp    they 

passed, 
And  reached  the  city  gate  at  last, 
Where  all  around,  a  wakeful  guard, 
Armed  burghers  kept  their  watch  and  ward. 
Well  had  they  cause  of  jealous  fear, 
When  lay  encamped  in  fields  so  near 
The  Borderer  and  the  Mountaineer. 
As  through  the  bustling  streets  they  go, 
All  was  alive  with  martial  show ; 
At  every  turn  with  dinning  clang 
The  armorer's  anvil  clashed  and  rang, 
Or  toiled  the  swarthy  smith  to  wheel 
The  bar  that  arms  the  charger's  heel, 
Or  axe  or  falchion  to  the  side 
Of  jarring  grindstone  was  applied. 
Page,   groom,    and  squire,   with    hurrying 

pace, 
Through  street  and  lane  and  market-place, 

Bore  lance  or  casque  or  sword ; 
While  burghers,  with  important  face, 

Described  each  new-come  lord, 
Discussed  his  lineage,  told  his  name, 
His  following,  and  his  warlike  fame. 
The  Lion  led  to  lodging  meet, 
Which  high  o'erlooked  the  crowded  street ; 

There  must  the  baron  rest 
Till  past  the  hour  of  vesper  tide, 
And  then  to  Holy-Rood  must  ride,  — 

Such  was  the  king's  behest. 
Meanwhile  the  Lion's  care  assigns 
A  banquet  rich  and  costly  wines 


To  Marmion  and  his  train ; 
And  when  the  appointed  hour  succeeds, 
The  baron  dons  his  peaceful  weeds, 
And  following  Lindesay  as  he  leads, 

The  palace  halls  they  gain. 

VII. 

Old  Holy-Rood  rung  merrily 
That  night  with  wassail,  mirth,  and  glee  : 
King  James  within  her  princely  bower 
Feasted  the  chiefs  of  Scotland's  power, 
Summoned  to  spend  the  parting  hour  ; 
For  he  had  charged  that  his  array 
Should  southward  march  by  break  of  day. 
Well  loved  that  splendid  monarch  aye 

The  banquet  and  the  song, 
By  day  the  tourney,  and  by  night 
The  merry  dance,  traced  fast  and  light, 
The  maskers  quaint,  the  pageant  bright, 

The  revel  loud  and  long. 
This  feast  outshone  his  banquets  past ; 
It  was  his  blithest  —  and  his  last. 
The  dazzling  lamps  from  gallery  gay 
Cast  on  the  court  a  dancing  ray ; 
Here  to  the  harp  did  minstrels  sing, 
There  ladies  touched  a  softer  string  ; 
With  long-eared  cap  and  motley  vest, 
The  licensed  fool  retailed  his  jest ; 
His  magic  tricks  the  juggler  plied  ; 
At  dice  and  draughts  the  gallants  vied  : 
While  some,  in  close  recess  apart, 
Courted  the  ladies  of  their  heart, 

Nor  courted  them  in  vain  ; 


u6 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


For  often  in  the  parting  hour 
Victorious  Love  asserts  his  power 

O'er  coldness  and  disdain  ; 
And  flinty  is  her  heart  can  view 
To  battle  march  a  lover  true  — 
Can  hear,  perchance,  his  last  adieu, 

Nor  own  her  share  of  pain. 


Through  this  mixed  crowd  of  glee  and  game 
The  king  to  greet  Lord  Marmion  came, 

While,  reverent,  all  made  room. 
An  easy  task  it  was.  I  trow, 
King  James's  manly  form  to  know, 
Although,  his  courtesy  to  show, 
He  doffed  to  Marmion  bending  low 

His  broidered  cap  and  plume. 
For  royal  were  his  garb  and  mien  : 

His  cloak  of  crimson  velvet  piled, 

Trimmed  with  the  fur  of  marten  wild, 
His  vest  of  changeful  satin  sheen, 

The  dazzled  eye  beguiled ; 
His  gorgeous  collar  hung  adown, 
Wrought   with    the    badge    of    Scotland's 

crown, 
The  thistle  brave  of  old  renown  ; 
His  trusty  blade,  Toledo  right, 
Descended  from  a  baldric  bright ; 
White  were  his  buskins,  on  the  heel 
His  spurs  inlaid  of  gold  and  steel ; 
His  bonnet,  all  of  crimson  fair, 
Was  buttoned  with  a  ruby  rare  : 
And  Marmion  deemed  he  ne'er  had  seen 
A  prince  of  such  a  noble  mien. 

IX. 

The  monarch's  form  was  middle  size, 
For  feat  of  strength  or  exercise 

Shaped  in  proportion  fair ; 
i  And  hazel  was  his  eagle  eye, 
And  auburn  of  the  darkest  dye 

His  short  curled  beard  and  hair. 
Light  was  his  footstep  in  the  dance, 

And  firm  his  stirrup  in  the  lists  : 
And,  oh  !  he  had. that  merry  glance 

That  seldom  lady's  heart  resists. 
Lightly  from  fair  to  fair  he  flew, 
And  loved  to  plead,  lament,  and  sue,  — 
Suit  lightly  won  and  short-lived  pain, 
For  monarchs  seldom  sigh  in  vain. 

I  said  he  joyed  in  banquet  bower  ; 
But,  mid  his  mirth,  'twas  often  strange 
How  suddenly  his  cheer  would  change, 

His  look  o'ercast  and  lower, 
If  in  a  sudden  turn  he  felt 
The  pressure  of  his  iron  belt, 
That  bound  his  breast  in  penance  pain, 
In  memory  of  his  father  slain. 
Even  so  't  was  strange  how  evermore, 
Soon  as  the  passing  pang  was  o'er, 


Forward  he  rushed  with  double  glee 
Into  the  stream  of  revelry. 
Thus  dim-seen  object  of  affright 
Startles  the  courser  in  his  flight, 
And  half  he  halts,  half  springs  aside, 
But  feels  the  quickening  spur  applied, 
And,  straining  on  the  tightened  rein, 
Scours  doubly  swift  o'er  hill  and  plain. 


O'er  James's  heart,  the  courtiers  say, 
Sir  Hugh  the  Heron's  wife  held  sway ; 

To  Scotland's  court  she  came 
To  be  a  hostage  for  her  lord, 
Who  Cessford's  gallant  heart  had  gored, 
And  with  the  king  to  make  accord 

Had  sent  his  lovely  dame. 
Nor  to  that  lady  free  alone 
Did  the  gay  king  allegiance  own  ; 

For  the  fair  Queen  of  France 
Sent  him  a  turquoise  ring  and  glove, 
And  charged  him,  as  her  knight  and  love, 

For  her  to  break  a  lance, 
And  strike  three  strokes  with  Scottish  brand. 
And  march  three  miles  on  Southron  land, 
And  bid  the  banners  of  his  band 

In  English  breezes  dance. 
And  thus  for  France's  queen  he  drest 
His  manly  limbs  in  mailed  vest, 
And  thus  admitted  English  fair 
His  inmost  councils  still  to  share, 
And  thus  for  both  he  madly  planned 
The  ruin  of  himself  and  land  ! 

And  yet,  the  sooth  to  tell, 
Nor  England's  fair  nor  France's  queen 
Were    worth    one    pearl-drop,    bright   and 
sheen. 

From  Margaret's  eyes  that  fell,  — 
JHis  own  Queen  Margaret,  who  in  Lithgow's 

bower 
All  lonely  sat  and  wept  the  weary  hour. 


XI. 

The  queen  sits  lone  in  Lithgow  pile, 

And  weeps  the  weary  day 
The  war  against  her  native  soil, 
Her  monarch's  risk  in  battle  broil,  — - 
And  in  gay  Holy-Rood  the  while 
Dame  Heron  rises  with  a  smile 

Upon  the  harp  to  play. 
Fair  was  her  rounded  arm,  as  o'er 

The  strings  her  fingers  flew  ; 
And  as  she  touched  and  tuned  them  all, 
Ever  her  bosom's  rise  and  fall 

Was  plainer  given  to  view; 
For,  all  for  heat,  was  laid  aside 
Her  wimple,  and  her  hood  untied. 
And  first  she  pitched  her  voice  to  sing, 
Then  glanced  her  dark  eye  on  the  king, 


M ARM  ION. 


17 


And  then  around  the  silent  ring, 

And  laughed,  and  blushed,  and  oft  did  say 

Her  pretty  oath,  by  yea  and  nay, 

She  could  not,  would  not,  durst  not  play  ! 


At  length,  upon  the  harp,  with  glee, 
Mingled  with  arch  simplicity, 
A  soft  yet  lively  air  she  rung. 
While  thus  the  wily  lady  sung :  — 


n8 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL    WORKS. 


XII. 


LOCHINVAR. 


ILaog  pjeron's  Song,.      , 

Oh  !  yoking  Lochinvar  is  come  oiit  of  the 

west,    /  /  / 

Through  ail  the  wide  Border  his  steed  was 

theybe/t ;  >  '  / 

4\nd  save  his  good  broadsword  he  weapons 

had  none, 
He  rode  all  unarmed  and  he  rode  all  alone. 
So  faithful  in  love  and  so  dauntless  in  war, 
There    never  was  knight   like    the   young 

Lochinvar.  ^ 

He  stayed  not  for  brake  and  he  stopped  not 

for  stone, 
He  swam  the  Eske  river  where  ford  there 

was  none;, 
But  ere  he  alighted  at  Netherby  gate 
The  bride  had  consented,  the  gallant  came 

late  : 
For  a  laggard  in  love  and  a  dastard  in  war 
Was  to  wed  the  fair  Ellen  of  brave  Lochinvar. 

So  boldly  he  entered  the  Netherby  Hall, 

Among  bridesmen,  and  kinsmen,  and  broth-  . 
ers,  and  all : 

Then  spoke  the  bride's  father,  his  hand  on 
his  sword,  — 

For  the  poor  craven  bridegroom  said  never 
a  word,  — 

'  Oh  !  come  ye  in  peace  here,  or  come  ye  in 
war, 

Or  to  dance  at  our  bridal,  young  Lord  Loch- 
invar ? '  — 

1 1  long  wooed  you^daughter,  my  suit  you 

denied ;  #v 

Love  swells  like  the  Solway,  but  ebbs  like 

its  tide  — 
And  now  am  I  come,  with  this  lost  love  of 

mine, 
To  lead  but  one  measure,  drink  one  cup  of 

wine. 
There  are  maidens  in  Scotland  more  lovely 

by  far, 
That  would  gladly  be  bride  to  the  young 

Lochinvar.' 

The  bride  kissed  the  goblet ;   the  knight 

took  it  up, 
He  quaffed  off  the  wine,  and  he  threw  down 

the  cup. 
She  looked  down  to  blush,  and  she  looked 

up  to  sigh, 
With  a  smile  on  her  lips  and  a  tear  in  her 

eye. 


He  took  her  soft  hand  ere  her  mother  could 

bar, — 
'  Now  tread  we  a   measure ! '   said  young 

Lochinvar. 

So  stately  his  form,  and  so  lovely  her  face,/ 
That  never. a  hall  such  a  galliard  did  grace ;/ 
While  her  mother  did  fret,  and  her  father' 

did  fume, 
And   the    bridegroom   stood   dangling   his 

bonnet  and  plume  ; 
And  the  bride-maidens  whispered,  '  'Twere 

better  by  far 
To  have  matched  our  fair  cousin  with  young 

Lochinvar.' 

One  touch  to  her  hand  and  one  word  in  her 

ear, 
When  they  reached  the  hall-door,  and  the 

charger  stood  near ; 
So  light  to  the  croupe  the  fair  lady  he  swung, 
So  light  to  the  saddle  before  her  he  sprung ! 
'  She  is  won !  we  are  gone,  over  bank,  bush, 

and  scaur ; 
They  '11  have  fleet  steeds  that  follow,'  quoth 

young  Lochinvar. 

There  was  mounting  'mong  Graemes  of  the 

Netherby  clan  ; 
Forsters,  Fenwicks,  and  Musgraves,  they 

rode  and  they  ran: 
There  was  racing  and  chasing  on  Cannobie 

Lee, 
But  the  lost  bride  of  Netherby  ne'er  did 

they  see. 
So  daring  in  love  and  so  dauntless  in  war, 
Have  ye  e'er  heard  of  gallant  like  young 

Lochinvar  ?  ••' 

XIII. 

The  monarch  o'er  the  siren  hung, 
And  beat  the  measure  as  she  sung ; 
And,  pressing  closer  and  more  near, 
He  whispered  praises  in  her  ear. 
In  loud  applause  the  courtiers  vied, 
And  ladies  winked  and  spoke  aside. 

The  witching  dame  to  Marmion  threw 
A  glance,  where  seemed  to  reign 

The  pride  that  claims  applauses  due, 

And  of  her  royal  conquest  too 
A  real  or  feigned  disdain  : 
Familiar  was  the  look,  and  told 
Marmion  and  she  were  friends  of  old. 
The  king  observed  their  meeting  eyes 
With  something  like  displeased  surprise  ; 
For  monarchs  ill  can  rivals  brook, 
Even  in  a  word,  or  smile,  or  look. 
Straight  took  he  forth  the  parchment  broad 
Which  Marmion's  high  commission  showed : 


MARMION. 


19 


*  Our  Borders  sacked  by  many  a  raid, 
Our  peaceful  liege-men  robbed,'  he  said, 
'  On  day  of  truce  our  warden  slain, 
Stout  Barton  killed,  his  vessels  ta'en  — 
Unworthy  were  we  here  to  reign, 
Should  these  for  vengeance  cry  in  vain ; 
Our  full  defiance,  hate,  and  scorn, 
Our  herald  has  to  Henry  borne.' 

XIV. 

He  paused,  and  led  where  Douglas  stood 
And  with  stern  eye  the  pageant  viewed  ; 
I  mean  that  Douglas,  sixth  of  yore, 
Who  coronet  of  Angus  bore, 
And,  when  his  blood  and  heart  were  high, 
Did  the  third  James  in  camp  defy, 
And  all  his  minions  led  to  die 

On  Lauder's  dreary  flat. 
Princes  and  favorites  long  grew  tame, 
And  trembled  at  the  homely  name 

Of  Archibald  Bell-the-Cat ; 
The  same  who  left  the  dusky  vale 
Of  Hermitage  in  Liddisdale, 

Its  dungeons  and  its  towers, 
Where  Bothwell's  turrets  brave  the  air, 
And  Bothwell  bank  is  blooming  fair, 

To  fix  his  princely  bowers. 
Though  now  in  age  he  had  laid  down 
His  armor  for  the  peaceful  gown. 

And  for  a  staff  his  brand, 
Yet  often  would  flash  forth  the  fire 
That  could  in  youth  a  monarch's  ire 

And  minion's  pride  withstand ; 
And  even  that  day  at  council  board. 


Unapt  to  soothe  his  sovereign's  mood, 
Against  the  war  had  Angus  stood, 
And  chafed  his  royal  lord. 

xv. 

His  giant-form,  like  ruined  tower, 
Though  fallen  its  muscles'  brawny  vaunt, 
Huge-boned,  and  tall,  and  grim,  and  gaunt, 

Seemed  o'er  the  gaudy  scene  to  lower  \ 
His  locks  and  beard  in  silver  grew, 
His  eyebrows  kept  their  sable  hue. 
Near  Douglas  when  the  monarch  stood, 
His  bitter  speech  he  thus  pursued : 
'  Lord  Marmion,  since  these  letters  say 
That  in  the  North  you  needs  must  stay 

While  slightest  hopes  of  peace  remain, 
Uncourteous  speech  it  were  and  stern 
To  say  —  Return  to  Lindisfarne, 

Until  my  herald  come  again. 
Then  rest  you  in  Tantallon  hold  : 
Your  host  shall  be  the  Douglas  bold,  — 
A  chief  unlike  his  sires  of  old. 
He  wears  their  motto  on  his  blade, 
Their  blazon  o'er  his  towers  displayed.     ' 
Yet  loves  his  sovereign  to  oppose 
More  than  to  face  his  country's  foes. 

And,  I  bethink  me,  by  Saint  Stephen, 

But  e'en  this  morn  to  me  was  given 
A  prize,  the  first  fruits  of  the  war, 
Ta'en  by  a  galley  from  Dunbar, 

A  bevy  of  the  maids  of  heaven. 
Under  your  guard  these  holy  maids 
Shall  safe  return  to  cloister  shades. 
And.  while  they  at  Tantallon  stay. 


120 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL    WORKS. 


Requiem  for  Cochran's  soul  may  say.' 
And  with  the  slaughtered  favorite's  name 
Across  the  monarch's  brow  there  came 
A  cloud  of  ire,  remorse,  and  shame. 


In  answer  nought  could  Angus  speak, 
His  proud  heart  swelled  well-nigh  to  break ; 
He  turned  aside,  and  down  his  cheek 

A  burning  tear  there  stole. 
His  hand  the  monarch  sudden  took, 
That  sight  his  kind  heart  could  not  brook : 

'  Now,  by  the  Bruce's  soul, 
Angus,  my  hasty  speech  forgive  ! 
For  sure  as  doth  his  spirit  live, 
As  he  said  of  the  Douglas  old, 

I  well  may  say  of  you,  — 
That  never  king  did  subject  hold, 
In  speech  more  free,  in  war  more  bold, 

More  tender  and  more  true  ; 
Forgive  me,  Douglas,  once  again.'  — 
And,  while  the  king  his  hand  did  strain, 
The  old  man's  tears  fell  down  like  rain. 
To  seize  the  moment  Marmion  tried. 
And  whispered  to  the  king  aside : 
'  Oh  !  let  such  tears  unwonted  plead 
For  respite  short  from  dubious  deed  ! 
A  child  will  weep  a  bramble's  .smart, 
A  maid  to  see  her  sparrow  part, 
A  stripling  for  a  woman's  heart ; 
But  woe  awaits  a  country  when 
She  sees  the  tears  of  bearded  men. 
Then,  oh  !  what  omen,  dark  and  high, 
When  Douglas  wets  his  manly  eye  ! ' 

XVII. 

Displeased  was  James  that  stranger  viewed 
And  tampered  with  his  changing  mood. 
4  Laugh  those  that  can,  weep  those  that  may,' 
Thus  did  the  fiery  monarch  say, 
'  Southward  I  march  by  break  of  day ; 
And  if  within  Tantallon  strong 
The  good  Lord  Marmion  tarries  long, 
Perchance  our  meeting  next  may  fall 
At  Tamworth  in  his  castle-hall.'  — 
The  haughty  Marmion  felt  the  taunt, 
And  answered  grave  the  royal  vaunt : 
'  Much  honored  were  my  humble  home, 
If  in  its  halls  King  James  should  come  ; 
But  Nottingham  has  archers  good, 
And  Yorkshire  men  are  stern  of  mood, 
Northumbrian  prickers  wild  and  rude. 
On  Derby  Hills  the  paths  are  steep, 
In  Ouse  and  Tyne  the  fords  are  deep  ; 
And  many  a  banner  will  be  torn, 
And  many  a  knight  to  earth  be  borne, 
And  many  a  sheaf  of  arrows  spent, 
Ere  Scotland's  king  shall  cross  the  Trent: 
Yet  pause,   brave    prince,   while    yet   you 
may ! '  — 


The  monarch  lightly  turned  away, 

And  to  his  nobles  loud  did  call, 

'  Lords,  to  the  dance,  —  a  hall  !  a  hall  ! ' 

Himself  his  cloak  and  sword  flung  by, 

And  led  Dame  Heron  gallantly  ; 

And  minstrels,  at  the  royal  order, 

Rung  out  '  Blue  Bonnets  o'er  the  Border.' 

XVIII. 

Leave  we  these  revels  now  to  tell 
What  to  Saint  Hilda's  maids  befell, 
Whose  galley,  as  they  sailed  again 
To  Whitby,  by  a  Scot  was  ta'en. 
Now  at  Dun-Edin  did  they  bide 
Till  James  should  of  their  fate  decide, 

And  soon  by  his  command 
Were  gently  summoned  to  prepare 
To  journey  under  Marmion's  care, 
As  escort  honored,  safe,  and  fair, 

Again  to  English  land. 
The  abbess  told  her  chaplet  o'er, 
Nor  knew  which  Saint  she  should  implore 
For,  when  she  thought  of  Constance,  sore 

She  feared  Lord  Marmion's  mood. 
And  judge  what  Clara  must  have  felt ! 
The  sword  that  hung  in  Marmion's  belt 

Had  drunk  De  Wilton's  blood. 
Unwittingly  King  James  had  given, 

As  guard  to  Whitby's  shades, 
The  man  most  dreaded  under  heaven 

By  these  defenceless  maids  ; 
Yet  what  petition  could  avail, 
Or  who  would  listen  to  the  tale 
Of  woman,  prisoner,  and  nun, 
Mid  bustle  of  a  war  begun  ? 
They  deemed  it  hopeless  to  avoid 
The  convoy  of  their  dangerous  guide. 

XIX. 

Their  lodging,  so  the  king  assigned, 
To  Marmion's,  as  their  guardian,  joined  ; 
And  thus  it  fell  that,  passing  nigh, 
The  Palmer  caught  the  abbess'  eye, 

Who  warned  him  by  a  scroll 
She  had  a  secret  to  reveal 
That  much  concerned  the  Church's  weal 

And  health  of  sinner's  soul ; 
And,  with  deep  charge  of  secrecy, 

She  named  a  place  to  meet 
Within  an  open  balcony, 
That  hung  from  dizzy  pitch  and  high 

Above  the  stately  street, 
To  which,  as  common  to  each  home, 
At  night  they  might  in  secret  come. 

xx. 

At  night  in  secret  there  they  came, 

The  Palmer  and  the  holy  dame. 

The  moon  among  the  clouds  rode  high, 


M ARM  ION. 

121 

And  all  the  city  hum  was  by. 

Though  I  must  speak  of  worldly  love,  — 

Upon  the  street,  where  late  before 

How  vain 

to  those  who  wed  above !  — 

Did  din  of  war  and  warriors  roar, 

De  Wiltoi 

1  and  Lord  Marmion  wooed 

You  might  have  heard  a  pebble  fall, 

Clara  de  Clare,  of  Gloster's  blood ;  — 

A  beetle  hum,  a  cricket  sing, 

Idle  it  were  of  Whitby's  dame 

An  owlet  flap  his  boding  wing 

To  say  of  that  same  blood  I  came  ;  — 

On  Giles's  steeple  tall. 

And  once 

when  jealous  rage  was  high, 

The  antique  buildings,  climbing  high, 

Lord  Marmion  said  despiteously, 

Whose  Gothic  frontlets  sought  the  sky, 

Wilton  was  traitor  in  his  heart, 

Were  here  wrapt  deepin  shade; 

And  had  made  league  with  Martin  Swart 

There  on  tneir  brows  the  moonbeam  broke, 

When  he 

came  here  on  Simnel's  part, 

Through  the  faint  wreaths  of  silvery  smoke, 

And  only 

cowardice  did  restrain 

And 

on  the  casements  played. 

His  rebel  aid  on  Stokefield's  plain,— 

^  JLk  .7 

; 

■ 

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-    '^-'h  ,£*:*V+-  'J  ^aV" ?'"'"*'-  :*  ■     *     •' 

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And  other  light  was  none  to^see, 

Save  torches  gliding  far,' 
Before  some  chieftain  of  degree 
Who  left  the  royal  revelry 

To  bowne  him  for  the  war.  — 
A  solemn  scene  the  abbess  chose, 
A  solemn  hour,  her  secret  to  disclose. 

XXI. 

J  O  holy  Palmer  ! '  she  began,  — 
'  For  sure  he  must  be  sainted  man, 
Whose  blessed  feet  have  trod  the  ground 
Where  the  Redeemer's  tomb  is  found,  — 
For  his  dear  Church's  sake,  my  tale 
Attend,  nor  deem  of  light  avail, 


And  down  he  threw  his  glove.     The  thing 
Was  tried,  as  wont,  before  the  king ; 
Where  frankly  did  De  Wilton  own 
That  Swart  in  Guelders  he  had  known, 
And  that  between  them  then  there  went 
Some  scroll  of  courteous  compliment. 
For  this  he  to  his  castle  sent ; 
But  when  his  messenger  returned, 
Judge  how  De  Wilton's  fury  burned ! 
For  in  his  packet  there  were  laid 
Letters  that  claimed  disloyal  aid 
And  proved  King  Henry's  cause  betrayed. 
His  fame,  thus  blighted,  in  the  field 
He  strove  to  clear  by  spear  and  shield ;  — 
To  clear  his  fame  in  vain  he  strove, 


122 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL   WORKS. 


For  wondrous  are  His  ways  above  ! 
Perchance  some  form  was  unobserved, 
Perchance  in  prayer  or  faith  he  swerved, 
Else  how  could  guiltless  champion  quail, 
Or  how  the  blessed  ordeal  fail  ? 

XXII. 

4  His  squire,  who  now  De  Wilton  saw 
As  recreant  doomed  to  suffer  law, 

Repentant,  owned  in  vain 
That  while  he  had  the  scrolls  in  care 
A  stranger  maiden,  passing  fair, 
Had  drenched  him  with  a  beverage  rare  ; 

His  words  no  faith  could  gain. 
With  Clare  alone  he  credence  won, 
Who,  rather  than  wed  Marmion, 
Did  to  Saint  Hilda's  shrine  repair. 
To  give  our  house  her  livings  fair 
And  die  a  vestal  votaress  there. 
The  impulse  from  the  earth  was  given, 
But  bent  her  to  the  paths  of  heaven. 
A  purer  heart,  a  lovelier  maid, 
Ne'er  sheltered  her  in  Whitby's  shade, 
No,  not  since  Saxon  Edelfled  ; 
Only  one  trace  of  earthly  stain, 

That  for  her  lover's  loss 
She  cherishes  a  sorrow  vain, 

And  murmurs  at  the  cross.  — 
And  then  her  heritage :  —  it  goes 

Along  the  banks  of  Tame  ; 
Deep  fields  of  grain  the  reaper  mows, 
In  meadows  rich  the  heifer  lows, 
The  falconer  and  huntsman  knows 

Its  woodlands  for  the  game. 
Shame  were  it  to  Saint  Hilda  dear, 
And  I,  her  humble  votaress  here, 

Should  do  a  deadly  sin, 
Her  temple  spoiled  before  mine  eyes, 
If  this  false  Marmion  such  a  prize 

By  my  consent  should  win ; 
Yet  hath  our  boisterous  monarch  sworn 
That  Clare  shall  from  our  house  be  torn, 
And  grievous  cause  have  I  to  fear 
Such  mandate  doth  Lord  Marmion  bear. 


'  Now,  prisoner,  helpless,  and  betrayed 
To  evil  power,  I  claim  thine  aid, 

By  every  step  that  thou  hast  trod 
To  holy  shrine  and  grotto  dim. 
By  every  martyr's  tortured  limb, 
By  angel,  saint,  and  seraphim. 

And  by  the  Church  of  God  ! 
For  mark  :  when  Wilton  was  betrayed, 
And  with  his  squire  forged  letters  laid, 
She  was,  alas  !  that  sinful  maid 

By  whom  the  deed  was  done, — 
Oh  !  shame  and  horror  to  be  said ! 

She  was  —  a  perjured  nun  ! 
No  clerk  in  all  the  land  like  her 


Traced  quaint  and  varying  character. 
Perchance  you  may  a  marvel  deem, 

That  Marmion's  paramour  — 
For    such    vile    thing    she    was  —  should 
scheme 

Her  lover's  nuptial  hour 
But  o'er  him  thus  she  hoped  to  gain, 
As  privy  to  his  honor's  stain, 

Illimitable  power. 
For  this  she  secretly  retained 

Each  proof  that  might  the  plot  reveal, 

Instructions  with  his  hand  and  seal ; 
And  thus  Saint  Hilda  deigned, 

Through  sinners'  perfidy  impure, 

Her  house's  glory  to  secure 

And  Clare's  immortal  weal. 

XXIV. 

'  'T  were  long  and  needless  here  to  tell 
How  to  my  hand  these  papers  fell ; 

With  me  they  must  not  stay. 
Saint  Hilda  keep  her  abbess  true  ! 
Who  knows  what  outrage  he  might  do 

While  journeying  by  the  way?  — 

0  blessed  Saint,  if  e'er  again 

1  venturous  leave  thy  calm  domain, 
To  travel  or  by  land  or  main, 

Deep  penance  may  I  pay  !  — 
Now,  saintly  Palmer,  mark  my  prayer  : 
I  give  this  packet  to  thy  care, 
For  thee  to  stop  they  will  not  dare  ; 

And  oh  !  with  cautious  speed 
To  Wolsey's  hand  the  papers  bring, 
That  he  may  show  them  to  the  king : 

And  for  thy  well-earned  meed, 
Thou  holy  man,  at  Whitby's  shrine 
A  weekly  mass  shall  still  be  thine 

While  priests  can  sing  and  read.  — 
What  ail'st  thou  ?  —  Speak  ! '  —  For  as  he 

took 
The  charge  a  strong  emotion  shook 

His  frame,  and  ere  reply 
They  heard  a  faint  yet  shrilly  tone, 
)  Like  distant  clarion  feebly  blown, 

That  on  the  breeze  did  die ; 
And  loud  the  abbess  shrieked  in  fear, 
'  Saint  Withold,  save  us  !  —  What  is  here  ! 

Look  at  yon  City  Cross  ! 
See  on  its  battled  tower  appear 
Phantoms,  that  scutcheons  seem  to  rear 

And  blazoned  banners  toss  ! '  — 


XXV. 

Dun-Edin's  Cross,  a  pillared  stone, 
Rose  on  a  turret  octagon  ;  — 
But  now  is  razed  that  monument, 

Whence  royal  edict  rang, 
And  voice  of  Scotland's  law  was  sent 

In  glorious  trumpet-clang. 


M ARM  ION. 


123 


Oh  !  be  his  tomb  as  lead  to  lead 
Upon  its  dull  destroyer's  head  !  — 
A  minstrel's  malison  is  said.  — 
Then  on  its  battlements  they  saw 
A  vision,  passing  Nature's  law, 
Strange,  wild,  and  dimly  seen ; 


Figures  that  seemed  to  rise  and  die, 
Gibber  and  sign,  advance  and  fly, 
While  nought  confirmed  could  ear  or  eye 

Discern  of  sound  or  mien. 
Yet  darkly  did  it  seem  as  there 
Heralds  and  pursuivants  prepare, 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL    ll'OXITS. 


With  trumpet  sound  and  blazon  fair. 

A  summons  to  proclaim : 
.But  indistinct  the  pageant  proud, 
:cy  forms  of  midnight  cloud 
When  flings  the  moon  upon  her  shroud 

avering  tinge  of  flame : 

It  flits,  expands,  and  shifts,  till  loud, 

From  midmost  of  the  spectre  crowd, 

This  awful  summons  came :  — 

\xvi. 

4  Prince,  prelate,  potentate,  and  peer, 

Whose  names  I  now  shall  call, 
Scottish  or  foreigner,  give  ear ! 
Subjects  of  him  who  sent  me  here, 
At  his  tribunal  to  appear 

I  summon  one  and  all : 
I  cite  you  by  each  deadly  sin 
That  e'er  hath  soiled  your  hearts  within  ; 
I  cite  vou  by  each  brutal  lust 
That  e  er  denied  your  earthly  dust,  — 

By  wrath,  by  pride,  by  fear. 
By  each  overmastering  passion's  tone, 
By  the  dark  grave  and  dying  groan  ! 
When  forty  days  are  passed  and  gone, 
I  cite  you,  at  your  monarch's  throne 

To  answer  and  appear/  — 
Then  thundered  forth  a  roll  of  names:  — 
The  first  was  thine,  unhappy  Janu  - 

Then  all  thy  nobles  came*; 
Crawford,  Glencairn,  Montrose,  Argvle, 
Ross.  Both  well.  Forbes,  Lennox,  Lyle,  — 
Why  should  I  tell  their  separate  style  ? 

Each  chief  of  birth  and  fame. 
Of  Lowland.  Highland,  Border,  Isle, 
Foredoomed  to  Flodden's  carnage  pile. 

Was  cited  there  by  name ; 
And  Marmion,  Lord  of  Fontenaye, 
Of  Lutterward.  and  Scrivelbave ; 
De  Wilton,  erst  of  Aberley. 
The  self-same  thundering  Voice  did  say.  — 

But  then  another  spoke  : 
■  Thy  fatal  summons  I  deny 
And  thine  infernal  lord  defy. 
,  Appealing  me  to  Him  on  high 

Who  burst  the  sinner's  yoke.? 
hat  dread  accent,  with  a  scream. 
Parted  the  pageant  like  a  dream. 

The  summoner  was  gone. 
Prone  on  her  face  the  abbess  fell. 
And  fast,  and  fast,  her  beads  did  tell ; 
Her  nuns  came,  startled  by  the  yell, 

And  found  her  there  alone. 
She  marked  not,  at  the  scene  aghast. 
What  time  or  how  the  Palmer  passed. 

xxvn. 

Shift  we  the  scene. — The  camp  doth  move : 
Dun-Edin's  streets  are  empty  now, 


Save  when,  for  weal  of  those  they  love 

To  pray  the  prayer  and  vow  the  vow. 
The  tottering  child,  the  anxious  fair. 
The  gray-haired  sire,  with  pious  care. 
To  chapels  and  to  shrines  repair.  — 
Where  is  the  Palmer  now  ?  and  where 
The  abbess.  Marmion,  and  Clare  ?  — 
Bold  Douglas !  to  Tantallon  fair 

They  journey  in  thy  charge  : 
Lord  Marmion  rode  on  his  right  hand, 
The  Palmer  still  was  with  the  band; 
Angus,  like  Lindesay,  did  command 

That  none  should  roam  at  large. 
But  in  that  Palmers  altered  mien 
A  wondrous  change  might  now  be  seen  : 

Freely  he  spoke  of 
Of  marvels  wrought  by  single  hand 
When  lifted  for  a  native  land. 
And  still  looked  high,  as  if  he  planned 

Some  desperate  deed  afar. 
His  courser  would  he  feed  and  stroke. 
And,  tucking  up  his  sable  frock. 
Would  first  nis  mettle  bold  provoke. 

Then  soothe  or  quell  his  pride. 
Old  Hubert  said  that  never  one 
He  saw,  except  Lord  Marmion, 

A  steed  so  fairly  ride. 

in. 

Some  half-hours  march  behind  there  came, 
By  Eustace  governed  fair, 

A  troop  escorting  Hilda's  dame, 
With  all  her  nuns  and  Clare. 

No  audience  had  Lord  Marmion  sought ; 
Ever  he  feared  to  aggravate 
Clara  de  Qare?s  suspicious  hate ; 

And  safer  *t  was,  he  thought, 

To  wait  till,  from  the  nuns  removed, 
The  influence  of  kinsmen  loved, 
And  suit  by  Henry's  self  approved, 

Her  slow  consent  had  wrought. 

His  was  no  flickering  flame,  that  dies 
Unless  when  fanned  by  looks  and  sighs 
And  lighted  oft  at  lady  s 
He  longed  to  stretch  his  wide  command 
O'er  luckless  Clara's  ample  land  : 
Besides,  when  Wilton  with  him  vied, 
Although  the  pang  of  humbled  pride 
The  place  of  jealousy  supplied; 
Yet  conquest  by  that  meanness  won 
He  almost  loathed  to  think  upon, 
Led  him,  at  times,  to  hate  the  cause 
Which  made  him  burst  through  honor's 

laws. 
If  e'er  he  loved,  Tt  was  her  alone 
Who  died  within  that  vault  of  stone. 

XXIX. 

And  now,  when  close  at  hand  they  saw 
North  Berwick's  town  and  lofty  Law, 


M ARM  I  ON. 


125 


Fitz-Eustace  bade  them  pause  awhile 
Before  a  venerable  pile 

Whose  turrets  viewed  afar 
The  lofty  Bass,  the  Lambie  Isle, 

The  ocean's  peace  or  war. 
At  tolling  of  a  bell,  forth  came 
The  convent's  venerable  dame, 
And  prayed  Saint  Hilda's  abbess  rest 
With  her,  a  loved  and  honored  guest, 
Till  Douglas  should  a  bark  prepare 
To  waft  her  back  to  Whitby  fair. 
Glad  was  the  abbess,  you  may  guess, 
And  thanked  the  Scottish  prioress  ; 
And  tedious  were  to  tell,  I  ween, 
The    courteous    speech    that    passed    be- 
tween. 

O'erjoyed  the  nuns  their  palfreys  leave; 
But  when  fair  Clara  did  intend, 
Like  them,  from  horseback  to  descend, 

Fitz-Eustace  said  :  '  I  grieve, 
Fair  lady,  grieve  e'en  from  my  heart, 
Such  gentle  company  to  part :  — 

Think  not  discourtesy, 
But  lords'  commands  must  be  obeyed, 
And  Marmion  and  the  Douglas  said 

That  you  must  wend  with  me. 
Lord  Marmion  hath  a  letter  broad, 
Which  to  the  Scottish  earl  he  showed, 
Commanding  that  beneath  his  care 
Without  delay  you  shall  repair 
To  your  good  kinsman,  Lord  Fitz-Clare.' 


XXX. 

The  startled  abbess  loud  exclaimed  ; 
But  she  at  whom  the  blow  was  aimed 
Grew  pale  as  death  and  cold  as  lead,  — 
She  deemed  she  heard  her  death-doom  read. 
4  Cheer  thee,  my  child  ! '  the  abbess  said, 
'  They  dare  not  tear  thee  from  my  hand, 
To  ride  alone  with  armed  band.'  — 

'  Nay,  holy  mother,  nay,' 
Fitz-Eustace  said,  '  the  lovely  Clare 
Will  be  in  Lady  Angus'  care, 

In  Scotland  while  we  stay ; 
And  when  we  move  an  easy  ride 
Will  bring  us  to  the  English  side, 
Female  attendance  to  provide 

Befitting  Gloster's  heir ; 
Nor  thinks  nor  dreams  my  noble  lord, 
By  slightest  look,  or  act,  or  word, 

To  harass  Lady  Clare. 
Her  faithful  guardian  he  will  be, 
Nor  sue  for  slightest  courtesy 

That  e'en  to  stranger  falls, 
Till  he  shall  place  her  safe  and  free 

Within  her  kinsman's  halls.' 
He  spoke,  and  blushed  with  earnest  grace ; 
His  faith  was  painted  on  his  face, 

And  Clare's  worst  fear  relieved. 
The  Lady  Abbess  loud  exclaimed 
On  Henry,  and  the  Douglas  blamed, 

Entreated,  threatened,  grieved, 
To  martyr,  saint,  and  prophet  prayed, 


126 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL    WORKS. 


Against  Lord  Marmion  inveighed, 
And  called  the  prioress  to  aid, 
To  curse  with  candle,  bell,  and  book. 
Her  head  the  grave  Cistertian  shook  : 
'  The  Douglas  and  the  king,'  she  said, 
'  In  their  commands  will  be  obeyed  ; 
Grieve  not,  nor  dream  that  harm  can  fall 
The  maiden  in  Tantallon  Hall.' 

XXXI. 

The  abbess,  seeing  strife  was  vain, 
Assumed  her  wonted  state  again,  — 

For  much  of  state  she  had,  — 
Composed  her  veil,  and  raised  her  head, 


Even  such  weak  minister  as  me 
May  the  oppressor  bruise  ; 

For  thus,  inspired,  did  Judith  slay 
The  mighty  in  his  sin, 

And  Jael  thus,  and  Deborah  '  — 
Here  hasty  Blount  broke  in : 
'  Fitz-Eustace,  we  must  march  our  band ; 
Saint  Anton'  fire  thee  !  wilt  thou  stand 
All  day,  with  bonnet  in  thy  hand, 

To  hear  the  lady  preach  ? 
By  this  good  light !  if  thus  we  stay, 
Lord  Marmion  for  our  fond  delay 

Will  sharper  sermon  teach. 
Come,  don  thy  cap  and  mount  thy  horse 
The  dame  must  patience  take  perforce.' 


And  *  Bid,'  in  solemn  voice  she  said, 
'  Thy  master,  bold  and  bad, 

The  records  of  his  house  turn  o'er, 
And,  when  he  shall  there  written  see 
That  one  of  his  own  ancestry 
Drove  the  monks  forth  of  Coventry, 

Bid  him  his  fate  explore ! 

Prancing  in  pride  of  earthly  trust, 
His  charger  hurled  him  to  the  dust, 
And,  by  a  base  plebeian  thrust, 

He  died  his  band  before. 

God  judge  'twixt  Marmion  and  me  ; 
He  is  a  chief  of  high  degree, 

And  I  a  poor  recluse, 

Yet  oft  in  holy  writ  we  see 


XXXII. 

'Submit  we  then  to  force,'  said  Clare, 
1  But  let  this  barbarous  lord  despair 

His  purposed  aim  to  win ; 
Let  him  take  living,  land,  and  life, 
But  to  be  Marmion's  wedded  wife 

In  me  were  deadly  sin  : 
And  if  it  be  the  king's  decree 
That  I  must  find  no  sanctuary 
In  that  inviolable  dome 
Where  even  a  homicide  might  come 

And  safely  rest  his  head, 
Though  at  its  open  portals  stood, 
Thirsting  to  pour  forth  blood  for  blood, 

The  kinsmen  of  the  dead, 


MARMION. 


12; 


Yet  one  asylum  is  my  own 

Against  the  dreaded  hour,  — 
A  low,  a  silent,  and  a  lone, 

Where  kings  have  little  power. 
One  victim  is  before  me  there.  — 
Mother,  your  blessing,  and  in  prayer 
Remember  your  unhappy  Clare  ! ' 
Loud  weeps  the  abbess,  and  bestows 

Kind  blessings  many  a  one ; 
Weeping  and  wailing  loud  arose, 
Round  patient  Clare,  the  clamorous  woes 

Of  every  simple  nun. 
His  eyes  the  gentle  Eustace  dried, 
And   scarce   rude  Blount  the  sight  could 
bide. 

Then  took  the  squire  her  rein, 
And  gently  led  away  her  steed, 
And  by  each  courteous  word  and  deed 

To  cheer  her  strove  in  vain. 


XXXIII. 

But  scant  three  miles  the  band  had  rode, 

When  o'er  a  height  they  passed, 
And,  sudden,  close  before  them  showed 

His  towers  Tantallon  vast, 
Broad,  massive,  high,  and  stretching  far, 
And  held  impregnable  in  war. 
On  a  projecting  rock  they  rose, 
And  round  three  sides  the  ocean  flows, 
The  fourth  did  battled  walls  enclose 

And  double  mound  and  fosse. 
By  narrow  drawbridge,  outworks  strong, 
Through  studded  gates,  an  entrance  long, 

To  the  main  court  they  cross. 
It  was  a  wide  and  stately  square  ; 
Around  were  lodgings  fit  and  fair, 

And  towers  of  various  form, 
Which  on  the  court  projected  far 
And  broke  its  lines  quadrangular. 
Here  was  square  keep,  there  turret  high, 
Or  pinnacle  that  sought  the  sky, 
Whence  oft  the  warder  could  descry 

The  gathering  ocean-storm. 


XXXIV. 

Here  did  they  rest.  —  The  princely  care 
Of  Douglas  why  should  I  declare, 
Or  say  they  met  reception  fair  ? 

Or  why  the  tidings  say, 
Which  varying  to  Tantallon  came, 
By  hurrying  posts  or  fleeter  fame, 

With  every  varying  day  ? 
And,  first,  they  heard  King  James  had  won 

Etall,  and  Wark,  and  Ford ;  and  then, 

That  Norham  Castle  strong  was  ta'en. 
At  that  sore  marvelled  Marmion, 
And  Douglas  hoped  his  monarch's  Hand 
Would  soon  subdue  Northumberland  ; 

But  whispered  news  there  came, 
That  while  his  host  inactive  lay, 
And  melted  by  degrees  away, 
King  James  was  dallying  off  the  day 

With  Heron's  wily  dame. 
Such  acts  to  chronicles  I  yield ; 

Go  seek  them  there  and  see : 
Mine  is  a  tale  of  Flodden  Field, 

And  not  a  history.  — 
At  length  they  heard  the  Scottish  host 
On  that  high  ridge  had  made  their  post 

Which  frowns  o'er  Millfield  Plain  ; 
And  that  brave  Surrey  many  a  band 
Had  gathered  in  the  Southern  land, 
And  marched  into  Northumberland, 

And  camp  at  Wooler  ta'en. 
Marmion,  like  charger  in  the  stall, 
That  hears,  without,  the  trumpet-call, 

Began  to  chafe  and  swear :  — 
'  A  sorry  thing  to  hide  my  head 
In  castle,  like  a  fearful  maid, 

When  such  a  field  is  near. 
Needs  must  I  see  this  battle-day  ; 
Death  to  my  fame  if  such  a  fray 
Were  fought,  and  Marmion  away  ! 

The  Douglas,  too,  I  wot  not  why, 

Hath  bated  of  his  courtesy ; 
No  longer  in  his  halls  I'll  stay  : ' 
Then  bade  his  band  they  should  array 
For  march  against  the  dawning  day. 


128 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL   WORKS. 


ittarmion. 

INTRODUCTION   TO   CANTO    SIXTH. 
To    RICHARD    HEBER,   ESQ. 

Mertoun  House,  Christmas. 

Heap  on  more  wood  !  —  the  wind  is  chill ; 

But  let  it  whistle  as  it  will, 

We  '11  keep  our  Christmas  merry  still. 

Each  age  has  deemed  the  new-born  year 

The  fittest  time  for  festal  cheeer: 

Even,  heathen  yet,  the  savage  Dane 

At  Iol  more  deep  the  mead  did  drain, 

High  on  the  beach  his  galleys  drew, 

And  feasted  all  his  pirate  crew ; 

Then  in  his  low  and  pine-built  hall, 

Where  shields  and  axes  decked  the  wall, 

They  gorged  upon  the  half-dressed  steer, 

Caroused  in  seas  of  sable  beer, 

While  round  in  brutal  jest  were  thrown 

The  half-gnawed  rib  and  marrowbone, 

Or  listened  all  in  grim  delight 

While  scalds  yelled  out  the  joys  of  fight. 

Then  forth  in  frenzy  would  they  hie, 

While  wildly  loose  their  red  locks  fly, 

And  dancing  round  the  blazing  pile, 

They  make  such  barbarous  mirth  the  while 

As  best  might  to  the  mind  recall 

The  boisterous  joys  of  Odin's  hall. 

And  well  our  Christian  sires  of  old 
Loved  when  the  year  its  course  had  rolled, 
And  brought  blithe  Christmas  back  again 
With  all  his  hospitable  train. 
Domestic  and  religious  rite 
Gave  honor  to  the  holy  night ; 
On  Christmas  eve  the  bells  were  rung, 
On  Christmas  eve  the  mass  was  sung  : 
That  only  night  in  all  the  year 
Saw  the  stoled  priest  the  chalice  rear. 
The  damsel  donned  her  kirtle  sheen ; 
The  hall  was  dressed  with  holly  green  ; 
Forth  to  the  wood  did  merrymen  go, 
To  gather  in  the  mistletoe. 
Then  opened  wide  the  baron's  hall 
To  vassal,  tenant,  serf,  and  all ; 
Power  laid  his  rod  of  rule  aside, 
And  Ceremony  doffed  his  pride. 


The  heir,  with  roses  in  his  shoes, 
That  night  might  village  partner  choose  ; 
The  lord,  underogating,  share 
The  vulgar  game  of  'post  and  pair/ 
All  hailed,  with  uncontrolled  delight 
And  general  voice,  the  happy  night 
That  to  the  cottage,  as  the  crown, 
Brought  tidings  of  salvation  down. 

The  fire,  with  well-dried  logs  supplied, 
Went  roaring  up  the  chimney  wide  ; 
The  huge  hall-table's  oaken  face, 
Scrubbed  till  it  shone,  the  day  to  grace, 
Bore  then  upon  its  massive  board 
No  mark  to  part  the  squire  and  lord. 
Then  was  brought  in  the  lusty  brawn 
By  old  blue-coated  serving-man  ; 
Then  the  grim  boar's-head  frowned  on  high, 
Crested  with  bays  and  rosemary. 
Well  can  the  green-garbed  ranger  tell 
How,  when,  and  where,  the  monster  fell, 
What  dogs  before  his  death  he  tore, 
And  all  the  baiting  of  the  boar. 
The  wassail  round,  in  good  brown  bowls 
Garnished  with  ribbons,  blithely  trowls. 
There  the  huge1  sirloin  reeked  ;  hard  by 
Plum-porridge  stood  and  Christmas  pie  : 
Nor  failed  old  Scotland  to  produce 
At  such  high  tide  her  savory  goose. 
Then  came  the  merry  maskers  in, 
And  carols  roared  with  blithesome  din ; 
If  unmelodious  was  the  song, 
It  was  a  hearty  note  and  strong. 
Who  lists  may  in  their  mumming  see 
Traces  of  ancient  mystery  ; 
White  shirts  supplied  the  masquerade, 
And  smutted  cheeks  the  visors  made  ; 
But  oh  !  what  maskers,  richly  dight, 
Can  boast  of  bosoms  half  so  light ! 
England  was  merry  England  when 
Old  Christinas  brought  his  sports  again. 
'T  was  Christmas  broach ed  th e  mighti est  ale. 
'T  was  Christmas  told  the  merriest  tale  ; 
A  Christmas  gambol  oft  could  cheer 
The  poor  man's  heart  through  half  the  year. 

Still  linger  in  our  northern  clime 
Some  remnants  of  the  good  old  time. 
And  still  within  our  valleys  here 
We  hold  the  kindred  title  dear, 
Even  when,  perchance,  its  far-fetched  claim 
To  Southron  ear  sounds  empty  name ; 
For  course  of  blood,  our  proverbs  deem, 
Is  warmer  than  the  mountain-stream. 
And  thus  my  Christmas  still  I  hold 
Where  my  great-grandsire  came  of  old, 
With  amber  beard  and  flaxen  hair 
And  reverend  apostolic  air, 
The  feast  and  holy-tide  to  share, 
And  mix  sobriety  with  wine, 


M ARM  ION. 


129 


And  honest  mirth  with  thoughts  divine  : 
Small  thought  was  his,  in  after  time 
E'er  to  be  hitched  into  a  rhyme. 
The  simple  sire  could  only  boast 
That  he  was  loyal  to  his  cost, 
The  banished  race  of  kings  revered, 
And  lost  his  land,  —  but  kept  his  beard. 

In  these  dear  halls,  where  welcome  kind 
Is  with  fair  liberty  combined, 
Where  cordial  friendship  gives  the  hand, 
And  flies  constraint  the  magic  wand 
Of  the  fair  dame  that  rules  the  land, 
Little  we  heed  the  tempest  drear, 
While  music,  mirth,  and  social  cheer 
Speed  on  their  wings  the  passing  year. 
And  Mertoun's  halls  are  fair  e'en  now, 
When  not'  a  leaf  is  on  the  bough. 
Tweed  loves  them  well,  and  turns  again, 
As  loath  to  leave  the  sweet  domain, 
And  holds  his  mirror  to  her  face, 
And  clips  her  with  a  close  embrace  :  — 
Gladly  as  he  we  seek  the  dome, 
And  as  reluctant  turn  us  home. 

How  just  that  at  this  time  of  glee 
My  thoughts  should,  Heber,  turn  to  thee ! 
For  many  a  merry  hour  we  've  known, 
And  heard  the  chimes  of  midnight's  tone. 
Cease,  then,  my  friend  !  a  moment  cease, 
And  leave  these  classic  tomes  in  peace  ! 
Of  Roman  and  of  Grecian  lore 
Sure  mortal  brain  can  hold  no  more. 
These  ancients,  as  Noll  Bluff  might  say, 
*  Were  pretty  fellows  in  their  day,' 
But  time  and  tide  o'er  all  prevail  — 
On  Christmas  eve  a  Christmas  tale  — 
Of  wonder  and  of  war  —  '  Profane  ! 
What !  leave  the  lofty  Latian  strain, 
Her  stately  prose,  her  verse's  charms, 
To  hear  the  clash  of  rusty  arms  ; 
In  Fairy-land  or  Limbo  lost, 
To  jostle  conjurer  and  ghost, 
Goblin  and  witch  ! '  —  Nay,  Heber  dear, 
Before  you  touch  my  charter,  hear ; 
Though  Leyden  aids,  alas  !  no  more, 
My  cause  with  many-languaged  lore, 
This  may  I  say  :  —  in  realms  of  death 
Ulysses  meets  Alcides'  wraith, 
yEneas  upon  Thracia's  shore 
The  ghost  of  murdered  Polydore ; 
For  omens,  we  in  Livy  cross 
At  every  turn  loaitus  Bos. 
As  grave  and  duly  speaks  that  ox 
As  if  he  told  the  price  of  stocks, 
Or  held  in  Rome  republican 
The  place  of  Common-councilman. 

All  nations  have  their  omens  drear, 
Their  legends  wild  of  woe  and  fear. 


To  Cambria  look  —  the  peasant  see 

Bethink  him  of  Glendowerdy 

And  shun  '  the  Spirit's  Blasted  Tree.'  — 

The  Highlander,  whose  red  claymore 

The  battle  turned  on  Maida's  shore, 

Will  on  a  Friday  morn  look  pale, 

If  asked  to  tell  a  fairy  tale  : 

He  fears  the  vengeful  Elfin  King, 

Who  leaves  that  day  his  grassy  ring ; 

Invisible  to  human  ken, 

He  walks  among  the  sons  of  men. 

Didst  e'er,  dear  Heber,  pass  along 
Beneath  the  towers  of  Franchdmont, 
Which,  like  an  eagle's  nest  in  air, 
Hang  o'er  the  stream  and  hamlet  fair  ? 
Deep  in  their  vaults,  the  peasants  say, 
A  mighty  treasure  buried  lay, 
Amassed  through  rapine  and  through  wrong 
By  the  last  Lord  of  Franche'mont. 
The  iron  chest  is  bolted  hard, 
A  huntsman  sits  its  constant  guard ; 
Around  his  neck  his  horn  is  hung, 
His  hanger  in  his  belt  is  slung ; 
Before  his  feet  his  bloodhounds  lie : 
An  't  were  not  for  his  gloomy  eye, 
Whose  withering  glance  no  heart  can  brook, 
As  true  a  huntsman  doth  he  look 
As  bugle  e'er  in  brake  did  sound, 
Or  ever  hallooed  to  a  hound. 
To  chase  the  fiend  and  win  the  prize 
In  that  same  dungeon  ever  tries 
An  aged  necromantic  priest ; 
It  is  an  hundred  years  at  least 
Since  'twixt  them  first  the  strife  begun, 
And  neither  yet  has  lost  nor  won. 
And  oft  the  conjurer's  words  will  make 
The  stubborn  demon  groan  and  quake  ; 
And  oft  the  bands  of  iron  break, 
Or  bursts  one  lock  that  still  amain 
Fast  as  't  is  opened,  shuts  again. 
That  magic  strife  within  the  tomb 
May  last  until  the  day  of  doom, 
Unless  the  adept  shall  learn  to  tell 
The  very  word  that  clenched  the  spell 
When  Franch'mont  locked  the  treasure  cell. 
An  hundred  years  are  passed  and  gone, 
And  scarce  three  letters  has  he  won. 


Such  general  superstition  may 
Excuse  for  old  Pitscottie  say, 
Whose  gossip  history  has  given 
My  song  the  messenger  from  heaven 
That  warned,  in  Lithgow,  Scotland's  king, 
Nor  less  the  infernal  summoning; 
May  pass  the  Monk  of  Durham's  tale, 
Whose  demon  fought  in  Gothic  mail ; 
May  pardon  plead  for  Fordun  grave, 
Who  told  of  Gifford's  Goblin-Cave. 
But  why  such  instances  to  you, 


130 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL    WORKS. 


Who  in  an  instant  can  renew 
Your  treasured  hoards  of  various  lore, 
And  furnish  twenty  thousand  more  ? 
Hoards,  not  like  theirs  whose  volumes  rest 
Like  treasures  in  the  Franch'mont  chest, 
While  gripple  owners  still  refuse 
To  others  what  they  cannot  use ; 
Give  them  the  priest's  whole  century, 
They  shall  not  spell  you  letters  three,  — 
Their  pleasure  in  the  books  the  same 
The  magpie  takes  in  pilfered  gem. 
Thy  volumes,  open  as  thy  heart, 
Delight,  amusement,  science,  art, 
To  every  ear  and  eye  impart ; 
Yet  who,  of  all  who  thus  employ  them, 
Can  like  the  owner's  self  enjoy  them  ?  — 
But,  hark  !  I  hear  the  distant  drum  ! 
The  day  of  Flodden  Field  is  come,  — 
Adieu,  dear  Heber !  life  and  health, 
And  store  of  literary  wealth. 


illarmion. 


CANTO     SIXTH. 


THE   BATTLE. 


While  great  events  were  on  the  gale, 
And  each  hour  brought  a  varying  tale, 
And  the  demeanor,  changed  and  cold, 
Of  Douglas  fretted  Marmion  bold, 
And,  like  the  impatient  steed  of  war, 
He  snuffed  the  battle  from  afar, 
And  hopes  were  none  that  back  again 
Herald  should  come  from  Terouenne, 
Where  England's  king  in  leaguer  lay, 
Before  decisive  battle-day,  — 
While  these  things  were,  the  mournful  Clare 
Did  in  the  dame's  devotions  share ; 
For  the  good  countess  ceaseless  prayed 
To  Heaven  and  saints  her  sons  to  aid, 
And  with  short  interval  did  pass 
From  prayer  to  book,  from  book  to  mass, 
And  all  in  high  baronial  pride,  — 
A  life  both  dull  and  dignified  : 


Yet,  as  Lord  Marmion  nothing  pressed 

Upon  her  intervals  of  rest, 

Dejected  Clara  well  could  bear 

The  formal  state,  the  lengthened  prayer. 

Though  dearest  to  her  wounded  heart 

The  hours  that  she  might  spend  apart. 


I  said  Tantallon's  dizzy  steep 

Hung  o'er  the  margin  of  the  deep. 

Many  a  rude  tower  and  rampart  there 

Repelled  the  insult  of  the  air, 

Which,  when  the  tempest  vexed  the  sky, 

Half  breeze,  half  spray,  came  whistling  by. 

Above  the  rest  a  turret  square 

Did  o'er  its  Gothic  entrance  bear, 

Of  sculpture  rude,  a  stony  shield ; 

The  Bloody  Heart  was  in  the  field, 

And  in  the  chief  three  mullets  stood, 

The  cognizance  of  Douglas  blood. 

The  turret  held  a  narrow  stair, 

Which,  mounted,  gave  you  access  where 

A  parapet's  embattled  row 

Did  seaward  round  the  castle  go. 

Sometimes  in  dizzy  steps  descending, 

Sometimes  in  narrow  circuit  bending, 

Sometimes  in  platform  broad  extending, 

Its  varying  circle  did  combine 

Bulwark,  and  bartizan,  and  line, 

And  bastion,  tower,  and  vantage-coign. 

Above  the  booming  ocean  leant 

The  far-projecting  battlement ; 

The  billows  burst  in  ceaseless  flow 

Upon  the  precipice  below. 

Where'er  Tantallon  faced  the  land, 

Gate-works  and  walls  were  strongly  manned ; 

No  need  upon  the  sea-girt  side  : 

The  steepy  rock  and  frantic  tide 

Approach  of  human  step  denied, 

And  thus  these  lines  and  ramparts  rude 

Were  left  in  deepest  solitude. 

in. 
And,  for  they  were  so  lonely,  Clare 
Would  to  these  battlements  repair, 
And  muse  upon  her  sorrows  there, 

And  list  the  sea-bird's  cry, 
Or  slow,  like  noontide  ghost,  would  glide 
Along  the  dark-gray  bulwarks'  side, 
And  ever  on  the  heaving  tide 

Look  down  with  weary  eye. 
Oft  did  the  cliff  and  swelling  main 
Recall  the  thoughts  of  Whitby's  fane,  — 
A  home  she  ne'er  might  see  again; 

For  she  had  laid  adown, 
So  Douglas  bade,  the  hood  and  veil, 
And  frontlet  of  the  cloister  pale, 

And  Benedictine  gown  : 
It  were  unseemly  sight,  he  said, 
A  novice  out  of  convent  shade.  — 


M ARM  ION. 


Now  her  bright  locks  with  sunny  glow 
Again  adorned  her  brow  of  snow ; 
Her  mantle  rich,  whose  borders  round 
A  deep  and  fretted  broidery  bound, 
In  golden  foldings  sought  the  ground  ; 
Of  holy  ornament,  alone 
Remained  a  cross  with  ruby  stone  ; 

And  often  did  she  look 
On  that  which  in  her  hand  she  bore, 
With  velvet  bound  and  broidered  o'er, 

Her  breviary  book. 
In  such  a  place,  so  lone,  so  grim, 
At  dawning  pale  or  twilight  dim, 

It  fearful  would  have  been 
To  meet  a  form  so  richly  dressed, 
With  book  in  hand,  and  cross  on  breast, 

And  such  a  woful  mien. 
Fitz-Eustace,  loitering  with  his  bow, 
To  practise  on  the  gull  and  crow, 
Saw  her  at  distance  gliding  slow, 

And  did  by  Mary  swear 
Some  lovelorn  fay  she  might  have  been, 
j  Or  in  romance  some  spell-bound  queen, 
For  ne'er  in  work-day  world  was  seen 

A  form  so  witching  fair. 


Once  walking  thus  at  evening  tide 
It  chanced  a  gliding  sail  she  spied, 
And  sighing  thought  —  '  The  abbess  there 
Perchance  does  to  her  home  repair ; 


Her  peaceful  rule,  where  Duty  free 

Walks  hand  in  hand  with  Charity, 

Where  oft  Devotion's  tranced  glow 

Can  such  a  glimpse  of  heaven  bestow 

That  the  enraptured  sisters  see 

High  vision  and  deep  mystery,  — 

The  very  form  of  Hilda  fair, 

Hovering  upon  the  sunny  air 

And  smiling  on  her  votaries'  prayer. 

Oh  !  wherefore  to  my  duller  eye 

Did  still  the  Saint  her  form  deny  ? 

Was  it  that,  seared  by  sinful  scorn, 

My  heart  could  neither  melt  nor  burn  ? 

Or  lie  my  warm  affections  low 

With  him  that  taught  them  first  to  glow  ? 

Yet,  gentle  abbess,  well  I  knew 

To  pay  thy  kindness  grateful  due, 

And  well  could  brook  the  mild  command 

That  ruled  thy  simple  maiden  band. 

How  different  now,  condemned  to  bide 

My  doom  from  this  dark  tyrant's  pride  !  — 

But  Marmion  has  to  learn  ere  long 

That  constant  mind  and  hate  of  wrong 

Descended  to  a  feeble  girl  ' 

From  Red  de  Clare,  stout  Gloster's  Earl : 

Of  such  a  stem  a  sapling  weak, 

He  ne'er  shall  bend,  although  he  break. 


But  see !  —  what  makes  this  armor  here  ? ' — 
For  in  her  path  there  lay 


132 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL   WORKS. 


Targe,  corselet,  helm ;    she  viewed   them 

near.  — 
*  The  breastplate  pierced !  —  Ay,  much   I 

fear, 
Weak   fence   wert   thou   'gainst  foeman's 

spear, 
That  hath  made  fatal  entrance  here, 

As  these  dark  blood-gouts  say.  — 
Thus  Wilton  !  —  Oh  !  not  corselet's  ward, 
Not  truth,  as  diamond  pure  and  hard, 
Could  be  thy  manly  bosom's  guard 

On  yon  disastrous  day  ! '  — 
She  raised  her  eyes  in  mournful  mood,  — 
Wilton  himself  before  her  stood  ! 
It  might  have  seemed  his  passing  ghost, 
For  every  youthful  grace  was  lost, 
And  joy  unwonted  and  surprise 
Gave  their  strange  wildness  to  his  eyes.  — 
Expect  not,  noble  dames  and  lords, 
That  I  can  tell  such  scene  in  words  : 
What  skilful  limner  e'er  would  choose 
To  paint  the  rainbow's  varying  hues, 
Unless  to  mortal  it  were  given 
To  dip  his  brush  in  dyes  of  heaven  ? 
Far  less  can  my  weak  line  declare 

Each  changing  passion's  shade  : 
Brightening  to  rapture  from  despair, 
Sorrow,  surprise,  and  pity  there, 
And  joy  with  her  angelic  air, 
And  hope  that  paints  the  future  fair, 

Their  varying  hues  displayed  ; 
Each  o'er  its  rival's  ground  extending, 
Alternate  conquering,  shifting,  blending. 


Till  all  fatigued  the  conflict  yield, 
And  mighty  love  retains  the  field. 
Shortly  I  tell  what  then  he  said, 
By  many  a  tender  word  delayed, 
And  modest  blush,  and  bursting  sigh. 
And  question  kind,  and  fond  reply  :  — 


JBe  ^Hilton's  p?tstorg. 

1  Forget  we  that  disastrous  day 
When  senseless  in  the  lists  I  lay. 

Thence   dragged,  —  but   how    I    cannot 
know, 
For  sense  and  recollection  fled,  — 

I  found  me  on  a  pallet  low 

Within  my  ancient  beadsman's  shed. 

Austin,  — remember'st  thou,  my  Clare, 
How  thou  didst  blush  when  the  old  man. 
When  first  our  infant  love  began, 

Said  we  would  make  a  matchless  pair  ?  — 
Menials  and  friends  and  kinsmen  fled 
From  the  degraded  traitor's  bed,  — 
He  only  held  my  burning  head, 
And  tended  me  for  many  a  day 
While  wounds  and  fever  held  their  sway. 
But  far  more  needful  was  his  care 
When  sense  returned  to  wake  despair ; 

For  I  did  tear  the  closing  wound, 

And  dash  me  frantic  on  the  ground. 
If  e'er  I  heard  the  name  of  Clare. 
At  length,  to  calmer  reason  brought, 
Much  by  his  kind  attendance  wrought, 


MARMIOAr. 


133 


With  him  I  left  my  native  strand, 
And,  in  a  palmer's  weeds  arrayed, 
My  hated  name  and  form  to  shade, 

I  journeyed  many  a  land, 
No  more  a  lord  of  rank  and  birth, 
But  mingled  with  the  dregs  of  earth. 

Oft  Austin  for  my  reason  feared, 


When  I  would  sit,  and  deeply  brood 
On  dark  revenge  and  deeds  of  blood. 

Or  wild  mad  schemes  upreared. 
My  friend  at  length  fell  sick,  and  said 

God  would  remove  him  soon  ; 
And  while  upon  his  dying  bed 

He  begged  of  me  a  boon  — 


134 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL    WORKS. 


If  e'er  my  deadliest  enemy 
Beneath  my  brand  should  conquered  lie, 
Even  then  my  mercy  should  awake 
And  spare  his  life  for  Austin's  sake. 

VII. 

1  Still  restless  as  a  second  Cain, 

To  Scotland  next  my  route  was  ta'en, 

Full  well  the  paths  I  knew. 
Fame  of  my  fate  made  various  sound, 
That  death  in  pilgrimage  I  found, 
That  I  had  perished  of  my  wound,  — 

None  cared  which  tale  was  true ; 
And  living  eye  could  never  guess 
De  Wilton  in  his  palmer's  dress, 
For  now  that  sable  slough  is  shed, 
And  trimmed  my  shaggy  beard  and  head, 
I  scarcely  know  me  in  the  glass. 
A  chance  most  wondrous  did  provide 
That  I  should  be  that  baron's  guide  — 

I  will  not  name  his  name  !  — 
Vengeance  to  God  alone  belongs  ; 
But,  when  I  think  on  all  my  wrongs j 

My  blood  is  liquid  flame  ! 
And  ne'er  the  time  shall  I  forget 
When,  in  a  Scottish  hostel  set, 

Dark  looks  we  did  exchange  : 
What  were  his  thoughts  I  cannot  tell, 
But  in  my  bosom  mustered  Hell 

Its  plans  of  dark  revenge. 

VIII. 

'  A  word  of  vulgar  augury 

That  broke  from  me,  I  scarce  knew  why, 

Brought  on  a  village  tale, 
Which  wrought  upon  his  moody  sprite, 
And  sent  him  armed  forth  by  night. 

I  borrowed  steed  and  mail 
And  weapons  from  his  sleeping  band ; 

And,  passing  from  a  postern  door, 
We  met  and  'countered,  hand  to  hand,  — 

He  fell  on  Gifford-moor. 
For  the  death-stroke  my  brand  I  drew,  — 
Oh  !  then  my  helmed  head  he  knew, 

The  palmer's  cowl  was  gone,  — 
Then  had  three  inches  of  my  blade 
The  heavy  debt  of  vengeance  paid,  — 
My  hand  the  thought  of  Austin  stayed  ; 

I  left  him  there  alone.  — 
O  good  old  man  !  even  from  the  grave 
Thy  spirit  could  thy  master  save  : 
If  I  had  slain  my  foeman,  ne'er 
Had  Whitby's  abbess  in  her  fear 
Given  to  my  hand  this  packet  dear, 
Of  power  to  clear  my  injured  fame 
And  vindicate  De  Wilton's  name.  — 
Perchance  you  heard  the  abbess  tell 
Of  the  strange  pageantry  of  hell 

That  broke  our  secret  speech  — 


It  rose  from  the  infernal  shade, 
Or  featly  was  some  juggle  played, 

A  tale  of  peace  to  teach. 
Appeal  to  Heaven  I  judged  was  best 
When  my  name  came  among  the  rest. 


'  Now  here  within  Tantallon  hold 

To  Douglas  late  my  tale  I  told, 

To  whom  my  house  was  known  of  old. 

Won  by  my  proofs,  his  falchion  bright 

This  eve  anew  shall  dub  me  knight. 

These  were  the  arms  that  once  did  turn 

The  tide  of  fight  on  Otterburne, 

And  Harry  Hotspur  forced  to  yield 

When  the  Dead  Douglas  won  the  field. 

These  Angus  gave  —  his  armorer's  care 

Ere  morn  shall  every  breach  repair  ; 

For  nought,  he  said,  was  in  his  halls 

But  ancient  armor  on  the  walls, 

And  aged  chargers  in  the  stalls, 

And  women,  priests,  and  gray-haired  men  ; 

The  rest  were  all  in  Twisel  glen. 

And  now  I  watch  my  armor  here, 

By  law  of  arms,  till  midnight 's  near  ; 

Then,  once  again  a  belted  knight. 

Seek  Surrey's  camp  with  dawn  of  light. 

x. 

'  There  soon  again  we  meet,  my  Clare ! 
This  baron  means  to  guide  th«e  there : 
Douglas  reveres  his  king's  command, 
Else  would  he  take  thee  from  his  band. 
And  there  thy  kinsman  Surrey,  too, 
Will  give  De  Wilton  justice  due. 
Now  meeter  far  for  martial  broil, 
Firmer  my  limbs  and  strung  by  toil, 
Once  more  '  —  '  O  Wilton  !  must  we  then 
Risk  new-found  happiness  again, 

Trust  fate  of  arms  once  more  ? 
And  is  there  not  an  humble  glen 

Where  we,  content  and  poor, 
Might  build  a  cottage  in  the  shade, 
A  shepherd  thou,  and  I  to  aid 

Thy  task  on  dale  and  moor  ?  — 
That  reddening  brow  !  —  too  well  I  know 
Not  even  thy  Clare  can  peace  bestow 

While  falsehood  stains  thy  name  : 
Go  then  to  fight !     Clare  bids  thee  go  ! 
Clare  can  a  warrior's  feelings  know 

And  weep  a  warrior's  shame, 
Can  Red  Earl  Gilbert's  spirit  feel, 
Buckle  the  spurs  upon  thy  heel 
And  belt  thee  with  thy  brand  of  steel, 

And  send  thee  forth  to  fame  ! ' 


XI. 

That  night  upon  the  rocks  and  bay 

The  midnight  moonbeam  slumbering  lay, 


MARMION. 


135 


And  poured  its  silver  light  and  pure 
Through  loophole  and  through  embrasure 

Upon  Tantallon  tower  and  hall : 
But  chief  where  arched  windows  wide 
Illuminate  the  chapel's  pride 

The  sober  glances  fall. 
Much  was  there  need  ;  though  seamed  with 

scars, 
Two  veterans  of  the  Douglas'  wars, 

Though  two  gray  priests  were  there, 
And  each  a  blazing  torch  held  high, 
You  could  not  by  their  blaze  descry 

The  chapel's  carving  fair. 
Amid  that  dim  and  smoky  light, 
Checkering  the  silvery  moonshine  bright, 

A  bishop  by  the  altar  stood, 

A  noble  lord  of  Douglas  blood, 
With  mitre  sheen  and  rochet  white. 
Yet  showed  his  meek  and  thoughtful  eye 
But  little  pride  of  prelacy  ; 
More  pleased  that  in  a  barbarous  age 
He  gave  rude  Scotland  Virgil's  page 
Than  that  beneath  his  rule  he  held 
The  bishopric  of  fair  Dunkeld. 
Beside  him  ancient _Angus  stood, 
Doffed  his  furred  gown  and  sable  hood  ; 
O'er  his  huge  form  and  visage  pale 
He  wore  a  cap  and  shirt  of  mail, 
And  leaned  his  large  and  wrinkled  hand 
Upon  the  huge  and  sweeping  brand 
Which  wont  of  yore  in  battle  fray 
His  foeman's  limbs  to  shred  away, 
As  wood-knife  lops  the  sapling  spray. 

He  seemed  as,  from  the  tombs  around 


Rising  at  judgment-day, 
Some  giant  Douglas  may  be  found 

In  all  his  old  array : 
So  pale  his  face,  so  huge  his  limb, 
So  old  his  arms,  his  look  so  grim. 


Then  at  the  altar  Wilton  kneels, 
And  Clare  the  spurs  bound  on  his  heels ; 
And  think  what  next  he  must  have  felt 
At  buckling  of  the  falchion  belt ! 

And  judge  how  Clara  changed  her  hue 
While  fastening  to  her  lover's  side 
A  friend,  which,  though  in  danger  tried, 

He  once  had  found  untrue  ! 
Then  Douglas  struck  him  with  his  blade : 
'  Saint  Michael  and  Saint  Andrew  aid, 

I  dub  thee  knight. 
Arise,  Sir  Ralph,  De  Wilton's  heir  ! 
For  king,  for  church,  for  lady  fair, 

See  that  thou  fight.' 
And  Bishop  Gawain,  as  he  rose. 
Said  :  '  Wilton  !  grieve  not  for  thy  woes, 

Disgrace,  and  trouble  ; 
For  He  who  honor  best  bestows 

May  give  thee  double.' 
De  Wilton  sobbed,  for  sob  he  must : 
*  Where'er  I  meet  a  Douglas,  trust 

That  Douglas  is  my  brother  ! ' 
1  Nay,  nay,'  old  Angus  said,  '  not  so ; 
To  Surrey's  camp  thou  now  must  go, 

Thy  wrongs  no  longer  smother. 
I  have  two  sons  in  yonder  field  ; 


136 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL    WORKS. 


And,  if  thou  meet'st  them  under  shield, 
Upon  them  bravely  —  do  thy  worst, 
And  foul  fall  him  that  blenches  first ! ' 

xin. 

Not  far  advanced  was  morning  day 
When  Marmion  did  his  troop  array 

To  Surrey's  camp  to  ride  ; 
He  had  safe-conduct  for  his  band 
Beneath  the  royal  seal  and  hand, 

And  Douglas  gave  a  guide. 
The  ancient  earl  with  stately  grace 
Would  Clara  on  her  palfrey  place, 
And  whispered  in  an  undertone, 
1  Let  the  hawk  stoop,  his  prey  is  flown.' 
The  train  from  out  the  castle  drew, 
But  Marmion  stopped  to  bid  adieu  : 

'  Though    something  I  might   plain,'  he 
said, 
4  Of  cold  respect  to  stranger  guest, 
Sent  hither  by  your  king's  behest, 

While  in  Tantallon's  towers  I  stayed, 


Part  we  in  friendship  from  your  land, 
And,  noble  earl,  receive  my  hand.'  — 
But  Douglas  round  him  drew  his  cloak, 
Folded  his  arms,  and  thus  he  spoke  :  — 
'  My  manors,  halls,  and  bowers  shall  still 
Be  open  at  my  sovereign's  will 
To  each  one  whom  he  lists,  howe'er 
Unmeet  to  be  the  owner's  peer. 
My  castles  are  my  king's  alone, 
From  turret  to  foundation-stone  — 
The  hand  of  Douglas  is  his  own, 
And  never  shall  in  friendly  grasp 
The  hand  of  such  as  Marmion  clasp.' 

XIV. 

Burned  Marmion's  swarthy  cheek  like  fire 
And  shook  his  very  frame  for  ire, 


And  —  '  This  to  me  ! '  he  said, 
'  An  't  were  not  for  thy  hoary  beard, 
Such  hand  as  Marmion's  had  not  spared 

To  cleave  the  Douglas'  head ! 
And  first  I  tell  thee,  haughty  peer, 
He  who  does  England's  message  here, 
Although  the  meanest  in  her  state. 
May  well,  proud  Angus,  be  thy  mate ; 
And,  Douglas,  more  I  tell  thee  here, 

Even  in  thy  pitch  of  pride, 
Here  in  thy  hold,  thy  vassals  near,  — 
Nay,  never  look  upon  your  lord, 
And  lay  your  hands  upon  your  sword,  — 

I  tell  thee,  thou  'rt  defied  ! 
And  if  thou  saidst  I  am  not  peer 
To  any  lord  in  Scotland  here, 
Lowland  or  Highland,  far  or  near, 

Lord  Angus,  thou  hast  lied  ! ' 
On  the  earl's  cheek  the  flush  of  rage 
O'ercame  the  ashen  hue  of  age  : 
Fierce  he  broke  forth,  —  '  And  darest  thou 
then 

To  beard  the  lion  in  his  den, 

The  Douglas  in  his  hall  ? 
And   hopest   thou   hence   un- 
scathed to  go  ?  — 
No,  by  Saint  Bride  of  Both- 
well,  no ! 
Up     drawbridge,     grooms  — 
what,  warder,  ho  ! 
Let  the  portcullis  fall.'  — 
Lord  Marmion  turned,  —  well 

was  his  need,  — 
And  dashed  the  rowels  in  his 

steed, 
Like  arrow  through  the  arch- 
way sprung, 
The  ponderous   grate   behind 

him  rung  ; 
To  pass  there  was  such  scanty 

room, 
The  bars  descending  razed  his 
plume. 


xv. 

The  steed  along  the  drawbridge  flies 
Just  as  it  trembled  on  the  rise ; 
Not  lighter  does  the  swallow  skim 
Along  the  smooth  lake's  level  brim: 
And   when    Lord     Marmion    reached    his 

band, 
He  halts,  and  turns  with  clenched  hand, 
And  shout  of  loud  defiance  pours, 
And  shook  his  gauntlet  at  the  towers. 
1  Horse  !  horse  !  '  the  Douglas  cried,  '  and 

chase ! ' 
But  soon  he  reined  his  fury's  pace : 
1  A  royal  messenger  he  came, 
Though  most  unworthy  of  the  name.  — 


M ARM  I  ON. 


137 


A  letter  forged  !  Saint  Jude  to  speed  ! 
Did  ever  knight  so  foul  a  deed  ? 
At  first  in  heart  it  liked  me  ill 
When  the  king  praised  his  clerkly  skill. 
Thanks  to  Saint  Bothan,  son  of  mine, 
Save  Gawain,  ne'er  could  pen  a  line ; 


So  swore  I,  and  I  swear  it  still, 
Let  my  boy-bishop  fret  his  fill. 
Saint  Mary  mend  my  fiery  mood 


138 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL    WORKS. 


*  Bold  can  he  speak  and  fairly  ride, 
I  warrant  him  a  warrior  tried.' 
With  this  his  mandate  he  recalls, 
And  slowly  seeks  his  castle  halls. 

XVI. 

The  day  in  Marmion's  journey  wore  ; 
Yet,  ere  his  passion's  gust  was  o'er, 
They  crossed  the  heights  of  Stanrig-moor. 
His  troop  more  closely  there  he  scanned, 
And  missed  the  Palmer  from  the  band. 
'  Palmer  or  not,'  young  Blount  did  say, 

*  He  parted  at  the  peep  of  day ; 
Good  sooth,  it  was  in  strange  array.' 

1  In  what  array?'  said  Marmion  quick. 

1  My  lord,  I  ill  can  spell  the  trick  ; 

But  all  night  long  with  clink  and  bang 

Close  to  my  couch  did  hammers  clang ; 

At  dawn  the  falling  drawbridge  rang, 

And  from  a  loophole  while  I  peep, 

Old  Bell-the-Cat  came  from  the  keep, 

Wrapped  in  a  gown  of  sables  fair, 

As  fearful  of  the  morning  air ; 

Beneath,  when  that  was  blown  aside, 

A  rusty  shirt  of  mail  I  spied, 

By  Archibald  won  in  bloody  work 

Against  the  Saracen  and  Turk  : 

Last  night  it  hung  not  in  the  hall  ; . 

I  thought  some  marvel  would  befall. 

And  next  I  saw  them  saddled  lead 

Old  Cheviot  forth,  the  earl's  best  steed, 

A  matchless  horse,  though  something  old, 

Prompt  in  his  paces,  cool  and  bold. 

I  heard  the  Sheriff  Sholto  say 

The  earl  did  much  the  Master  pray 

To  use  him  on  the  battle-day, 

But  he  preferred  '  —  '  Nay,  Henry,  cease  ! 

Thou  sworn  horse-courser,  hold  thy  peace.  — 

Eustace,  thou  bear'st  a  brain  —  I  pray, 

What  did  Blount  see  at  break  of  day  ? '  — 

XVII. 

*  In  brief,  my  lord,  we  both  descried  — 
For  then  I  stood  by  Henry's  side  — 
The  Palmer  mount  and  outwards  ride 

Upon  the  earl's  own  favorite  steed. 
All  sheathed  he  was  in  armor  bright, 
And  much  resembled  that  same  knight 
Subdued  by  you  in  Cotswold  fight ; 

Lord  Angus  wished  him  speed.'  — 
The  instant  that  Fitz-Eustace  spoke, 
A  sudden  light  on  Marmion  broke  :  — 

*  Ah  !  dastard  fool,  to  reason  lost ! '  ■ 
He  muttered  ;  '  'T  was  nor  fay  nor  ghost 
I  met  upon  the  moonlight  wold, 

But  living  man  of  earthly  mould.  — 

O  dotage  blind  and  gross  ! 
Had  I  but  fought  as  wont,  one  thrust 
Had  laid  De  Wilton  in  the  dust, 

My  path  no  more  to  cross.  — 


How  stand  we  now  ?  —  he  told  his  tale 
To  Douglas,  and  with  some  avail ; 

'T  was    therefore    gloomed   his    rugged 
brow.  — 
Will  Surrey  dare  to  entertain 
'Gainst    Marmion   charge    disproved    and 
vain  ? 

Small  risk  of  that,  I  trow. 
Yet  Clare's  sharp  questions  must  I  shun, 
Must  separate  Constance  from  the  nun  — 
Oh  !  what  a  tangled  web  we  weave 
When  first  we  practise  to  deceive  ! 
A  Palmer  too  !  —  no  wonder  why 
I  felt  rebuked  beneath  his  eye ; 
I  might  have  known  there  was  but  one 
Whose  look  could  quell  Lord  Marmion.' 

XVIII. 

Stung  with  these   thoughts,   he   urged    to 

speed 
His  troop,  and  reached  at  eve  the  Tweed, 
Where  Lennel's  convent  closed  their  march. 
There  now  is  left  but  one  frail  arch, 

Yet  mourn  thou  not  its  cells  ; 
Our  time  a  fair  exchange  has  made  : 
Hard  by,  in  hospitable  shade, 

A  reverend  pilgrim  dwells, 
Well  worth  the  whole  Bernardine  brood 
That  e'er  wore  sandal,  frock,  or  hood. — 
Yet  did  Saint  Bernard's  abbot  there 
Give  Marmion  entertainment  fair, 
And  lodging  for  his  train  and  Clare. 
Next  morn  the  baron  climbed  the  tower, 
To  view  afar  the  Scottish  power, 

Encamped  on  Flodden  edge  ; 
The  white  pavilions  made  a  show 
Like  remnants  of  the  winter  snow 

Along  the  dusky  ridge. 
Long  Marmion  looked  :  —  at  length  his  eye 
Unusual  movement  might  descry 

Amid  the  shifting  lines  ; 
The  Scottish  host  drawn  out  appears, 
For,  flashing  on  the  hedge  of  spears, 

The  eastern  sunbeam  shines. 
Their  front  now  deepening,  now  extending, 
Their  flank  inclining,  wheeling,  bending, 
Now  drawing  back,  and  now  descending, 
The  skilful  Marmion  well  could  know 
They  watched  the  motions  of  some  foe 
Who  traversed  on  the  plain  below. 

XIX. 

Even  so  it  was.     From  Flodden  ridge 
The  Scots  beheld  the  English  host 
Leave  Barmore-wood,  their  evening  post, 
And  heedful  watched  them  as  they  crossed 

The  Till  by  Twisel  Bridge. 

High  sight  it  is  and  haughty,  while 
They  dive  into  the  deep  defile ; 
Beneath  the  caverned  cliff  they  fall, 


M ARM  ION. 


139 


Beneath  the  castle's  airy  wall. 
By  rock,  by  oak,  by  hawthorn-tree, 

Troop  after  troop  are  disappearing ; 

Troop  after  troop  their  banners  rearing 
Upon  the  eastern  bank  you  see ; 
Still  pouring  down  the  rocky  den 

Where  flows  the  sullen  Till, 
And  rising  from  the  dim-wood  glen, 
Standards  on  standards,  men  on  men, 

In  slow  succession  still, 
And  sweeping  o'er  the  Gothic  arch, 
And  pressing  on,  in  ceaseless  march, 


And  sees,  between  him  and  his  land, 
Between  him  and  Tweed's  southern  strand, 

His  host  Lord  Surrey  lead  ? 
What  vails  the  vain  knight-errant's  brand  ?  -— 
O  Douglas,  for  thy  leading  wand  ! 

Fierce  Randolph,  for  thy  speed  ! 
Oh  !  for  one  hour  of  Wallace  wight, 
Or  well-skilled  Bruce,  to  rule  the  fight 
And  cry,  '  Saint  Andrew  and  our  right ! ' 
Another  sight  had  seen  that  morn, 
From  Fate's  dark  book  a  leaf  been  torn, 
And  Flodden  had  been  Bannockbourne  !  — 


To  gain  the  opposing  hill. 
That  morn,  to  many  a  trumpet  clang, 
Twisel !  thy  rock's  deep  echo  rang ; 
And  many  a  chief  of  birth  and  rank, 
Saint  Helen !  at  thy  fountain  drank. 
Thy  hawthorn  glade,  which  now  we  see 
In  spring-tide  bloom  so  lavishly, 
Had  then  from  many  an  axe  its  doom, 
To  give  the  marching  columns  room. 

xx. 

And  why  stands  Scotland  idly  now, 
Dark  Flodden  !  on  thy  airy  brow, 
Since  England  gains  the  pass  the  while, 
And  struggles  through  the  deep  defile  ? 
What  checks  the  fiery  soul  of  James  ? 
Why  sits  that  champion  of  the  dames 
Inactive  on  his  steed, 


The  precious  hour  has  passed  in  vain, 
And  England's  host  has  gained  the  plain, 
Wheeling  their  march  and  circling  still 
Around  the  base  of  Flodden  hill. 

XXI. 

Ere  yet  the  bands  met  Marmion's  eye, 
Fitz-Eustace  shouted  loud  and  high, 
1  Hark !  hark  !  my  lord,  an  English  drum  ! 
And  see  ascending  squadrons  come 

Between  Tweed's  river  and  the  hill, 
Foot,  horse,  and  cannon  !     Hap  what  hap, 
My  basnet  to  a  prentice  cap, 

Lord  Surrey  's  o'er  the  Till !  — 
Yet  more  !  yet  more  !  —  how  fair  arrayed 
They  file  from  out  the  hawthorn  shade, 

And  sweep  so  gallant  by ! 
With  all  their  banners  bravely  spread, 


140 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL   WORKS. 


And  all  their  armor  flashing  high, 
Saint  George  might  waken  from  the  dead, 

To  see  fair  England's  standards  fly.'  — 
1  Stint  in  thy  prate,'  quoth  Blount, '  thou  'dst 

best, 
And  listen  to  our  lord's  behest.'  — 
With  kindling  brow  Lord  Marmion  said, 
4  This  instant  be  our  band  arrayed ; 
The  river  must  be  quickly  crossed, 
That  we  may  join  Lord  Surrey's  host. 
If  fight  King  James,  —  as  well  I  trust 
That  fight  he  will,  and  fight  he  must,  — 
The  Lady  Clare  behind  our  lines 
Shall  tarry  while  the  battle  joins.' 


Himself  he  swift  on  horseback  threw, 
Scarce  to  the  abbot  bade  adieu, 
Far  less  would  listen  to  his  prayer 
To  leave  behind  the  helpless  Clare. 
Down  to  the  Tweed  his  band  he  drew, 
And  muttered  as  the  flood  they  view, 
'  The  pheasant  in  the  falcon's  claw, 
He  scarce  will  yield  to  please  a  daw ; 
Lord  Angus  may  the  abbot  awe, 

So  Clare  shall  bide  with  me.' 
Then  on  that  dangerous  ford  and  deep 
Where  to  the  Tweed  Leat's  eddies  creep 

He  ventured  desperately : 
And  not  a  moment  will  he  bide 
Till  squire  or  groom  before  him  ride ; 
Headmost  of  all  he  stems  the  tide, 

And  stems  it  gallantly. 
Eustace  held  Clare  upon  her  horse, 

Old  Hubert  led  her  rein, 
Stoutly  they  braved  the  current's  course, 
And,  though  far  downward  driven  perforce, 

The  southern  bank  they  gain. 


Behind  them  straggling  came  to  shore, 

As  best  they  might,  the  train : 
Each  o'er  his  head  his  yew-bow  bore, 

A  caution  not  in  vain  ; 
Deep  need  that  day  that  every  string, 
By  wet  unharmed,  should  sharply  ring. 
A  moment  then  Lord  Marmion  stayed, 
And  breathed  his  steed,  his  men  arrayed, 

Then  forward  moved  his  band, 
Until,  Lord  Surrey's  rear-guard  won, 
He  halted  by  a  cross  of  stone, 
That  on  a  hillock  standing  lone 

Did  all  the  field  command. 


Hence  might  they  see  the  full  array 
Of  either  host  for  deadly  fray  ; 
Their  marshalled  lines  stretched  east  and 
west, 
And  fronted  north  and  south, 
And  distant  salutation  passed 

From  the  loud  cannon  mouth ; 
Not  in  the  close  successive  rattle 
That  breathes  the  voice  of  modern  battle, 

But  slow  and  far  between. 
The  hillock  gained,  fcord  Marmion  stayed  : 
'  Here,  by  this  cross,'  he  gently  said, 

'  You  well  may  view  the  scene. 
Here  shalt  thou  tarry,  lovely  Clare : 
Oh  !  think  of  Marmion  in  thy  prayer !  — 
Thou  wilt  not?  —  well,  no  less  my  care 
Shall,  watchful,  for  thy  weal  prepare.  — 
You,  Blount  and  Eustace,  are  her  guard, 

With  ten  picked  archers  of  my  train  ; 
With  England  if  the  day  go  hard, 

To  Berwick  speed  amain.  — 
But  if  we  conquer,  cruel  maid, 
My  spoils  shall  at  your  feet  be  laid, 

When  here  we  meet  again.' 
He  waited  not  for  answer  there, 
And  would  not  mark  the  maid's  despair, 

Nor  heed  the  discontent- 
ed look 
From    either    squire,    but 

spurred  amain, 
And,  dashing  through  the 
battle-plain, 
His  way  to  Surrey  took. 

XXIV. 

'The  good  Lord  Marmion, 
by  my  life ! 
Welcome     to     danger's 
hour! — 

Short   greeting  serves    in 
time  of  strife. — 
Thus  have  I  ranged  my 
power : 

Myself  will  rule  this  cen- 
tral host, 


M ARM  I  ON. 


141 


Stout  Stanley  fronts  their  right, 
My  sons  command  the  vaward  post, 

With  Brian  Tunstall,  stainless  knight ; 

Lord  Dacre,  with  his  horsemen  light, 

Shall  be  in  rearward  of  the  fight, 
And  succor  those  that  need  it  most. 

Now,  gallant  Marmion,  well  I  know, 

Would  gladly  to  the  vanguard  go ; 
Edmund,  the  Admiral,  Tunstall  there, 
With  thee  their  charge  will  blithely  share ; 
There  fight  thine  own  retainers  too 
Beneath  De  Burg,  thy  steward  true.' 
1  Thanks,  noble  Surrey  ! '  Marmion  said, 
Nor  further  greeting  there  he  paid, 
But,  parting  like  a  thunderbolt, 
First  in  the  vanguard  made  a  halt, 

Where  such  a  shout  there  rose 
Of  '  Marmion  !  Marmion  ! '  that  the  cry, 
Up  Flodden  mountain  shrilling  high, 

Startled  the  Scottish  foes. 

XXV. 

Blount  and  Fitz-Eustace  rested  still 
With  Lady  Clare  upon  the  hill, 
On  which  — for  far  the  day  was  spent  — 
The  western  sunbeams  now  were  bent ; 
The  cry  they  heard,  its  meaning  knew, 
Could  plain  their  distant  comrades  view: 
Sadly  to  Blount  did  Eustace  say, 
'  Unworthy  office  here  to  stay  ! 
No  hope  of  gilded  spurs  to-day.  — 
But  see  !  look  up  —  on  Flodden  bent 
The  Scottish  foe  has  fired  his  tent.' 


And  sudden,  as  he  spoke, 
From  the  sharp  ridges  of  the  hill, 
All  downward  to  the  banks  of  Till, 

Was  wreathed  in  sable  smoke. 
Volumed  and  vast,  and  rolling  far, 
The  cloud  enveloped  Scotland's  war 

As  down  the  hill  they  broke  ; 
Nor  martial  shout,  nor  minstrel  tone, 
Announced  their  march  ;  their  tread  alone, 
At  times  one  warning  trumpet  blown, 

At  times  a  stifled  hum, 
Told  England,  from  his  mountain-throne 

King  James  did  rushing  come. 
Scarce  could  they  hear  or  see  their  foes 
Until  at  weapon-point  they  close.  — 
They  close  in  clouds  of  smoke  and  dust, 
With  sword-sway  and  with  lance's  thrust ; 

And  such  a  yell  was  there, 
Of  sudden  and  portentous  birth, 
As  if  men  fought  upon  the  earth, 

And  fiends  in  upper  air ; 
Oh  !  life  and  death  were  in  the  shout, 
Recoil  and  rally,  charge  and  rout, 

And  triumph  and  despair. 
Long  looked  the  anxious  squires  ;  their  eye 
Could  in  the  darkness  nought  descry. 

xxvi. 

At  length  the  freshening  western  blast 
Aside  the  shroud  of  battle  cast ; 
And  first  the  ridge  of  mingled  spears 
Above  the  brightening  cloud  appears, 
And  in  the  smoke  the  pennons  flew, 


142 


SCOTT1  S  POETICAL    WORKS. 


As  in  the  storm  the  white  seamew. 
Then  marked  they,  dashing  broad  and  far, 
^The  broken  billows  of  the  war, 
And  plumed  crests  of  chieftains  brave 
Floating  like  foam  upon  the  wave  ; 

But  nought  distinct  they  see : 
Wide  raged  the  battle  on  the  plain  ; 
Spears  sho^k  and  falchions  flashed  amain  ; 
Fell  England's  arrow-flight  like  rain  ; 
Crests  rose,  and  stooped,  and  rose  again, 

Wild  and  disorderly. 
Amid  the  scene  of  tumult,  high 
They  saw  Lord  Marmion's  falcon  fly ; 
And  stainless  Tunstall's  banner  white, 
And  Edmund  Howard's  lion  bright, 
Still  bear  them  bravely  in  the  fight, 

Although  against  them  come 
Of  gallant  Gordons  many  a  one, 
And  many  a  stubborn  Badenoch-man, 
And  many  a  rugged  Border  clan, 

With  Huntly  and  with  Home. 


Far  on  the  left,  unseen  the  while, 
Stanley  broke  Lennox  and  Argyle, 
Though  there  the  western  mountaineer 
Rushed  with  bare  bosom  on  the  spear, 
And  flung  the  feeble  targe  aside, 
And  with  both  hands  the  broadsword  plied. 
'T  was  vain.  —  But  Fortune,  on  the  right, 
With  fickle  smile  cheered  Scotland's  fight. 
Then  fell  that  spotless  banner  white, 

The  Howard's  lion  fell ; 
Yet  still  Lord  Marmion's  falcon  flew 
With  wavering  flight,  while  fiercer  grew 

Around  the  battle-yell. 
The  Border  slogan  rent  the  sky ! 
A  Home  !  a  Gordon  !  was  the  cry  : 

Loud  were  the  clanging  blows  ; 
Advanced,  —  forced  back,  —  now  low,  now 
high, 

The  pennon  sunk  and  rose; 
As  bends  the  bark's-mast  in  the  gale, 
When  rent  are  rigging,  shrouds,  and  sail, 

It  wavered  mid  the  foes. 
No  longer  Blount  the  view  could  bear : 
'  By  heaven  and  all  its  saints  !  I  swear 

I  will  not  see  it  lost ! 
Fitz-Eustace,  you  with  Lady  Clare 
May  bid  your  beads  and  patter  prayer,  — 

I  gallop  to  the  host.' 
And  to  the  fray  he  rode  amain, 
Followed  by  all  the  archer  train. 
The  fiery  youth,  with  desperate  charge, 
Made  for  a  space  an  opening  large,  — 

The  rescued  banner  rose,  — 
But  darkly  closed  the  war  around, 
Like  pine-tree  rooted  from  the  ground 

It  sank  among  the  foes. 
Then  Eustace  mounted  too,  —  yet  stayed, 


As  loath  to  leave  the  helpless  maid, 

When,  fast  as  shaft  can  fly, 
Bloodshot  his  eyes,  his  nostrils  spread, 
The  loose  rein  dangling  from  his  head, 
Housing  and  saddle  bloody  red, 

Lord  Marmion's  steed  rushed  by  ; 
And  Eustace,  maddening  at  the  sight, 

A  look  and  sign  to  Clara  cast 

To  mark  he  would  return  in  haste, 
Then  plunged  into  the  fight. 

XXVIII. 

Ask  me  not  what  the  maiden  feels, 
Left  in  that  dreadful  hour  alone  : 

Perchance  her  reason  stoops  or  reels ; 
Perchance  a  courage,  not  her  own, 
Braces  her  mind  to  desperate  tone.  — 

The  scattered  van  of  England  wheels ;  — 
She  only  said,  as  loud  in  air 
The  tumult  roared,  '  Is  Wilton  there? '  — 
They  fly,  or,  maddened  by  despair, 
Fight  but  to  die,  —  '  Is  Wilton  there  ?  ' 

With  that,  straight  up  the  hill  there  rode 
Two  horsemen  drenched  with  gore, 

And  in  their  arms,  a  helpless  load, 
A  wounded  knight  they  bore. 

His  hand  still  strained  the  broken  brand ; 

His  arms  were  smeared   with   blood   and 
sand. 

Dragged  from  among  the  horses'  feet, 

With  dinted  shield  and  helmet  beat, 

The  falcon-crest  and  plumage  gone, 

Can  that  be  haughty  M  arm  ion  !  .  .  . 

Young  Blount  his  armor  did  unlace, 

And,  gazing  on  his  ghastly  face, 
Said,  '  By  Saint  George,  he  's  gone ! 

That  spear-wound  has  our  master  sped, 

And  see  the  deep  cut  on  his  head ! 
Good-night  to  Marmion.'  — 

'  Unnurtured  Blount !  thy  brawling  cease  : 

He  opes  his  eyes,'  said  Eustace;  'peace  ! ' 


When,  doffed  his  casque,  he  felt  free  air, 

Around  gan  Marmion  wildly  stare  : 

1  Where  's     Harry    Blount  ?     Fitz-Eustace 

where  ? 
Linger  ye  here,  ye  hearts  of  hare  ! 
Redeem  my  pennon,  —  charge  again  ! 
Cry,  "  Marmion  to  the  rescue  ! "'  —  Vain  ! 
Last  of  my  race,  on  battle-plain 
That  shout  shall  ne'er  be  heard  again  !  — 
Yet  my  last  thought  is  England's  —  fly, 

To  Dacre  bear  my  signet-ring; 

Tell  him  his  squadrons  up  to  bring. — 
Fitz-Eustace,  to  Lord  Surrey  hie  : 

Tunstall  lies  dead  upon  the  field, 

His  lifeblood  stains  the  spotless  shield ; 

Edmund  is  down  ;  my  life  is  reft ; 

The  Admiral  alone  is  left. 


M ARM  I  ON. 


143 


Let  Stanley  charge  with  spur  of  fire, — 
With  Chester  charge,  and  Lancashire, 
Full  upon  Scotland's  central  host, 
Or  victory  and  England  's  lost.  — 
Must    I    bid    twice  ?  —  hence,    varlets  ! 
fly!  — 


Leave  Marmion  here  alone  —  to  die.' 

They  parted,  and  alone  he  lay  ; 

Clare  drew  her  from  the  sight  away, 
Till  pain  wrung  forth  a  lowly  moan, 
And  half  he  murmured,  '  Is  there  none 

Of  all  my  halls  have  nurst, 


144 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL    WORKS. 


Page,  squire,  or  groom,  one  cup  to  bring 
Of  blessed  water  from  the  spring, 
To  slake  my  dying  thirst ! ' 

XXX. 

O  Woman  !  in  our  hours  of  ease 
Uncertain,  coy,  and  hard  to  please, 
And  variable  as  the  shade 
By  the  light  quivering  aspen  made  ; 
When  pain  and  anguish  wring  the  brow, 
A  ministering  angel  thou  !  — . 
Scarce  were  the  piteous  accents  said,  ■ 
When  with  the  baron's  casque  the  maid 

To  the  nigh  streamlet  ran  : 
Forgot  were  hatred,  wrongs,  and  fears  ; 
The  plaintive  voice  alone  she  hears, 

Sees  but  the  dying  man. 
She  stooped  her  by  the  runnel's  side, 

But  in  abhorrence  backward  drew  ; 
For,  oozing  from  the  mountain's  side 
Where  raged  the  war,  a  dark-red  tide 

Was  curdling  in  the  streamlet  blue. 
Where  shall  she  turn  ?  —  behold  her  mark 

A  little  fountain  cell, 
Where  water,  clear  as  diamond-spark, 

In  a  stone  basin  fell. 
Above,  some  half-worn  letters  say, 
Brink,  foearg.  pilgrim.  Brink,  ano.  prag. 
jFor.  trje.  kino,  soul.  of.  Stbgl.  ©reg. 

®5Ef)0.  built,  this,  cross.  ano.  rocii. 
She  filled  the  helm  and  back  she  hied, 
And  with  surprise  and  joy  espied 

A  monk  supporting  Marmion's  head ; 
A  pious  man,  whom  duty  brought 
To  dubious  verge  of  battle  fought, 

To  shrieve  the  dying,  bless  the  dead. 

XXXI. 

Deep  drank  Lord  Marmion  of  the  wave, 
And,  as  she  stooped  his  brow  to  lave  — 
*  Is  it  the  hand  of  Clare,'  he  said, 
1  Or  injured  Constance,  bathes  my  head  ? ' 

Then,  as  remembrance  rose,  — 
1  Speak  not  to  me  of  shrift  or  prayer ! 

I  must  redress  her  woes. 
Short  space,  few  words,  are  mine  to  spare 
Forgive  and  listen,  gentle  Clare  ! '  — 

1  Alas  ! '  she  said,  '  the  while,  — 
Oh  !  think  of  your  immortal  weal ! 
In  vain  for  Constance  is  your  zeal ; 

She  — died  at  Holy  Isle.' — 
Lord  Marmion  started  from  the  ground 
As  light  as  if  he  felt  no  wound, 
Though  in  the  action  burst  the  tide 
In  torrents  from  his  wounded  side. 
4  Then  it  was  truth,'  he  said  —  '  I  knew 
That  the  dark  presage  must  be  true.  — 
I  would  the  Fiend,  to  whom  belongs 
The  vengeance  clue  to  all  her  wrongs, 

Would  spare  me  but  a  day  ! 


For  wasting  fire,  and  dying  groan, 
And  priests  slain  on  the  altar  stone, 

Might  bribe  him  for  delay. 
It  may  not  be  !  —  this  dizzy  trance  — 
Curse  on  yon  base  marauder's  lance, 
And  doubly  cursed  my  failing  brand  ! 
A  sinful  heart  makes  feeble  hand.' 
Then  fainting  down  on  earth  he  sunk, 
Supported  by  the  trembling  monk. 

XXXII. 

With  fruitless  labor  Clara  bound 

And  strove  to  stanch  the  gushing  wound  ; 

The  monk  with  unavailing  cares 

Exhausted  all  the  Church's  prayers. 

Ever,  he  said,  that,  close  and  near, 

A  lady's  voice  was  in  his  ear, 

And  that  the  priest  he  could  not  hear  : 

For  that  she  ever  sung, 
'  In  the  lost  battle,  borne  down  by  the  flying, 
Where  mingles  war's  rattle  with  groans  of 
the  dying  / ' 

So  the  notes  rung. 


Avoid  thee,  Fiend 


nth  cruel  hand 


Shake  not  the  dying  sinner's  sand  !  — 
Oh  !  look,  my  son,  upon  yon  sign 
Of  the  Redeemer's  grace  divine ; 

Oh  !  think  on  faith  and  bliss  !  — 
By  many  a  death-bed  I  have  been, 
And  many  a  sinner's  parting  seen, 

But  never  aught  like  this.'  — 
The  war,  that  for  a  space  did  fail, 
Now  trebly -thundering  swelled  the  gale, 

And  '  Stanley  ! '  was  the  cry.  — 
A  light  on  Marmion's  visage  spread, 

And  fired  his  glazing  eye  ; 
With  dying  hand  above  his  head 
He  shook  the  fragment  of  his  blade, 

And  shouted  '  Victory  !  — 
Charge,  Chester,  charge  !  On,  Stanley,  on  ! ' 
Were  the  last  words  of  Marmion. 


XXXIII. 

By  this,  though  deep  the  evening  fell, 
Still  rose  the  battle's  deadly  swell, 
For  still  the  Scots  around  their  king, 
Unbroken,  fought  in  desperate  ring. 
Where  's  now  their  victor  vaward  wing, 

Where  Huntly,  and  where  Home  ?  — 
Oh  !  for  a  blast  of  that  dread  horn, 
On  Fontarabian  echoes  borne, 

That  to  King  Charles  did  come, 
When  Rowland  brave,  and  Olivier, 
And  every  paladin  and  peer, 

On  Roncesvalles  died ! 
Such  blasts  might  warn  them,  not  in  vain, 
To  quit  the  plunder  of  the  slain 
And  turn  the  doubtful  day  again, 

While  yet  on  Flodden  side 


M ARM  ION. 


145 


Afar  the  Royal  Standard  flies, 

And  round  it  toils  and  bleeds  and  dies 

Our  Caledonian  pride! 
In  vain  the  wish  —  for  far  away, 
While  spoil  and  havoc  mark  their  way, 
Near  Sibyl's  Cross  the  plunderers  stray.  — 
1  O  lady,'  cried  the  monk,  '  away  ! ' 

And  placed  her  on  her  steed, 
And  led  her  to  the  chapel  fair 

Of  Tilmouth  upon  Tweed. 
There  all  the  night  they  spent  in  prayer, 
And  at  the  dawn  of  morning  there 
She  met  her  kinsman,  Lord  Fitz-Clare. 

XXXIV. 

But  as  they  left  the  darkening  heath 
More  desperate  grew  the  strife  of  death. 
The  English  shafts  in  volleys  hailed, 
In  headlong  charge  their  horse  assailed ; 
Front,  flank,  and  rear,  the  squadrons  sweep 
To  break  the  Scottish  circle  deep 
That  fought  around  their  king. 
But  yet,  though  thick  the  shafts  as  snow, 
Though  charging  knights  like  whirlwinds  go, 
Though  billmen  ply  the  ghastly  blow, 


Unbroken  was  the  ring ; 
The  stubborn  spearmen  still  made  good 
Their  dark  impenetrable  wood, 
Each  stepping  where  his  comrade  stood 

The  instant  that  he  fell. 
No  thought  was  there  of  dastard  flight ; 
Linked  in  the  serried  phalanx  tight, 
Groom  fought  like  noble,  squire  like  knight. 

As  fearlessly  and  well, 
Till  utter  darkness  closed  her  wing 
O'er  their  thin  host  and  wounded  king. 
Then  skilful  Surrey's  sage  commands 
Led  back  from  strife  his  shattered  bands  ; 

And  from  the  charge  they  drew, 
As  mountain-waves  from  wasted  lands 

Sweep  back  to  ocean  blue. 
Then  did  their  loss  his  foemen  know ; 
Their  king,  their  lords,  their  mightiest  low, 
They  melted  from  the  field,  as  snow, 
When  streams  are  swoln  and  south  winds 
blow, 

Dissolves  in  silent  dew. 
Tweed's  echoes  heard  the  ceaseless  plash, 

While  many  a  broken  band 
Disordered  through  her  currents  dash, 

To  gain  the  Scottish  land ; 


10 


146 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL    WORKS. 


To  town  and  tower,  to  down  and  dale, 
To  tell  red  Flodden's  dismal  tale, 
And  raise  the  universal  wail. 
Tradition,  legend,  tune,  and  song 
Shall  many  an  age  that  wail  prolong ; 
Still  from  the  sire  the  son  shall  hear 
Of  the  stern  strife  and  carnage  drear 

Of  Flodden's  fatal  field,     - 
Where  shivered  was  fair  Scotland's  spear 

And  broken  was  her  shield  ! 

xxxv. 
Day  dawns  upon  the  mountain's  side.  — 
There,  Scotland !  lay  thy  bravest  pride, 
Chiefs,  knights,  and  nobles,  many  a  one  ; 
The  sad  survivors  all  are  gone.  — 
View  not  that  corpse  mistrustfully, 
Defaced  and  mangled  though  it  be  ; 
Nor  to  yon  Border  castle  high 
Look  northward  with  upbraiding  eye  ; 

Nor  cherish  hope  in  vain 
That,  journeying  far  on  foreign  strand, 
The  Royal  Pilgrim  to  his  land 

May  yet  return  again. 
He  saw  the  wreck  his  rashness  wrought ; 
Reckless  of  life,  he  desperate  fought, 

And  fell  on  Flodden  plain  : 
And  well  in  death  his  trusty  brand, 
Firm  clenched  within  his  manly  hand, 

Beseemed  the  monarch  slain. 
But  oh !    how   changed   since   yon   blithe 

night !  — 
Gladly  I  turn  me  from  the  sight 

Unto  my  tale  again. 

XXXVI. 

Short  is  my  tale  :  —  Fitz-Eustace'  care 

A  pierced  and  mangled  body  bare 

To  moated  Lichfield's  lofty  pile  ; 

And  there,  beneath  the  southern  aisle, 

A  tomb  with  Gothic  sculpture  fair 

Did  long  Lord  Marmion's  image  bear.  — 

Now  vainly  for  its  site  you  look  ; 

"T  was  levelled  when  fanatic  Brook 

The  fair  cathedral  stormed  and  took, 

But,  thanks  to  Heaven  and  good  Saint  Chad, 

A  guerdon  meet  the  spoiler  had  !  — 

There  erst  was  martial  Marmion  found, 

His  feet  upon  a  couchant  hound, 

His  hands  to  heaven  upraised  ; 
And  all  around,  on  scutcheon  rich, 
And  tablet  carved,  and  fretted  niche, 

His  arms  and  feats  were  blazed.       * 
And  yet,  though  all  was  carved  so  fair, 
And  priest  for  Marmion  breathed  the  prayer, 
The  last  Lord  Marmion  lay  not  there. 
From  Ettrick  woods  a  peasant  swain 
Followed  his  lord  to  Flodden  plain,  — 
One  of  those  flowers  whom  plaintive  lay 
In  Scotland  mourns  as  '  wede  away  : ' 


Sore  wounded,  Sibyl's  Cross  he  spied, 
And  dragged  him  to  its  foot,  and  died 
Close  by  the  noble  Marmion's  side. 
The  spoilers  stripped  and  gashed  the  slain,, 
And  thus  their  corpses  were  mista'en  ; 
And  thus  in  the  proud  baron's  tomb 
The  lowly  woodsman  took  the  room. 

XXXVII. 

Less  easy  task  it  were  to  show 

Lord  Marmion's  nameless  grave  and  low. 

They  dug  his  grave  e'en  where  he  lay, 

But  every  mark  is  gone : 
Time's  wasting  hand  has  done  away 
The  simple  Cross  of  Sibyl  Grey, 

And  broke  her  font  of  stone  ; 
But  yet  from  out  the  little  hill 
Oozes  the  slender  springlet  still. 

Oft  halts  the  stranger  there, 
For  thence  may  best  his  curious  eye 
The  memorable  field  descry  ; 

And  shepherd  boys  repair 
To  seek  the  water-flag  and  rush, 
And  rest  them  by  the  hazel  bush, 

And  plait  their  garlands  fair, 
Nor  dream  they  sit  upon  the  grave 
That  holds  the  bones  of  Marmion  brave. — 
When  thou  shalt  find  the  little  hill, 
With  thy  heart  commune  and  be  still. 
If  ever  in  temptation  strong 
Thou  left'st  the  right  path  for  the  wrong, 
If  every  devious  step  thus  trod 
Still  led  thee  further  from  the  road, 
Dread  thou  to  speak  presumptuous  doom 
On  noble  Marmion's  lowly  tomb  ; 
But  say,  '  He  died  a  gallant  knight, 
With  sword  in  hand,  for  England's  right.* 

XXXVIII. 

I  do  not  rhyme  to  that  dull  elf 

Who  cannot  image  to  himself 

That  all  through  Flodden's  dismal  night 

Wilton  was  foremost  in  the  fight, 

That  when  brave  Surrey's  steed  was  slain 

'T  was  Wilton  mounted  him  again  ; 

'T  was  Wilton's  brand  that  deepest  hewed 

Amid  the  spearmen's  stubborn  wood  : 

Unnamed  by  Holinshed  or  Hall, 

He  was  the  living  soul  of  all ; 

That,  after  fight,  his  faith  made  plain, 

He  won  his  rank  and  lands  again, 

And  charged  his  old  paternal  shield 

With  bearings  won  on  Flodden  Field. 

Nor  sing  I  to  that  simple  maid 

To  whom  it  must  in  terms  be  said 

That  king  and  kinsmen  did  agree 

To  bless  fair  Clara's  constancy  ; 

Who  cannot,  unless  I  relate, 

Paint  to  her  mind  the  bridal's  state,  — 


MARMION. 


147 


That  Wolsey's  voice  the  blessing  spoke, 
More,  Sands,  and  Denny,  passed  the  joke  ; 
That  bluff  King  Hal  the  curtain  drew, 
And  Katherine's  hand  the  stocking  threw ; 
And  afterwards,  for  many  a  day, 
That  it  was  held  enough  to  say, 
In  blessing  to  a  wedded  pair, 
'  Love  they  like  Wilton  and  like  Clare ! ' 


L'ENVOY. 


TO   THE   READER. 


Why  then  a  final  note  prolong, 
Or  lengthen  out  a  closing  song, 
Unless  to  bid  the  gentles  speed, 


Who  long  have  listed  to  my  rede  ? 

To  statesmen  grave,  if  such  may  deign 

To  read  the  minstrel's  idle  strain, 

Sound  head,  clean  hand,  and  piercing  wit, 

And  patriotic  heart  —  as  Pitt  ! 

A  garland  for  the  hero's  crest, 

And  twined  by  her  he  loves  the  best ! 

To  every  lovely  lady  bright, 

What  can  I  wish  but  faithful  knight  ? 

To  every  faithful  lover  too, 

What  can  I  wish  but  lady  true  ? 

And  knowledge  to  the  studious  sage, 

And  pillow  soft  to  head  of  age ! 

To  thee,  dear  school-boy,  whom  my  lay 

Has  cheated  of  thy  hour  of  play, 

Light  task  and  merry  holiday  ! 

To  all,  to  each,  a  fair  good-night, 

And  pleasing  dreams,  and  slumbers  light ! 


Cf)e  iUtip  of  tf)e  £afce. 


TO 
THE    MOST   NOBLE 

JOHN    JAMES,    MARQUIS    OF    ABERCORN, 

&c,  &c,  &c, 

THIS    POEM    IS    INSCRIBED    BY 

THE   AUTHOR. 


ARGUMENT. 


The  scene  of  the  following  Poem  is  laid  chiefly  in  the  vicinity  of  Loch  Katrine,  in  the  Western  Highlands  of  Perth- 
shire.   The  time  of  Action  includes  Six  Days,  and  the  transactions  of  each  Day  occupy  a  Canto. 


GP&e  1a*8  of  tje  Hake. 

CANTO    FIRST. 
THE   CHASE. 

Harp  of  the  North  !  that  mouldering  long 
hast  hung 
On    the    witch-elm    that    shades    Saint 
Fillan's  spring, 
And  down  the  fitful   breeze  thy  numbers 
flung, 
Till  envious  ivy  did  around  thee  cling, 
Muffling  with  verdant  ringlet  every  string,  — 
O  Minstrel  Harp,  still  must  thine  accents 
sleep  ? 
Mid  rustling  leaves  and  fountains  murmur- 
ing, 
Still  must  thy  sweeter  sounds  their  silence 
keep, 
Nor  bid  a  warrior  smile,  nor  teach  a  maid 
to  weep  ? 

Not  thus,  in  ancient  days  of  Caledon, 
Was  thy  voice  mute  amid  the  festal  crowd, 


When  lay  of  hopeless  love,  or  glory  won, 

Aroused  the  fearful  or  subdued  the  proud. 
At  each  according  pause  was  heard  aloud 

Thine  ardent  symphony  sublime  and  high ! 
Fair  dames   and  crested   chiefs   attention 
bowed ; 
For  still  the  burden  of  thy  minstrelsy 
Was    Knighthood's    dauntless    deed,   and 
Beauty's  matchless  eye. 

O,  wake  once  more!  how  rude  soe'er  the 
hand 
That  ventures  o'er  thy  magic  maze  to 
stray ; 
O,  wake  once  more  !  though  scarce  my  skill 
command 
Some  feeble  echoing  of  thine  earlier  lay  : 
Though  harsh  and  faint,  and  soon  to  die 
away, 
And  all  unworthy  of  thy  nobler  strain, 
Yet  if  one  heart  throb  higher  at  its  sway, 
The  wizard  note  has   not  been  touched 
in  vain. 
Then  silent  be   no  more  !     Enchantress, 
wake  again! 


152 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


The  stag  at  eve  had  drunk  his  fill, 
Where  danced  the  moon  on  Monan's  rill. 
And  deep  his  midnight  lair  had  made% 
In  lone  Glenartney's  hazel  shade; 
But  when  the  sun  his  beacon  red 
Had  kindled  on  Benvoirlich's  head, 


The  deep-mouthed  bloodhound's  heavy  bay 
Resounded  up  the  rocky  way, 
And  faint,  from  farther  distance  borne, 
Were  heard  the  clanging  hoof  and  horn. 

ii. 

As  Chief,  who  hears  his  warder  call, 
4  To  arms  !  the  foemen  storm  the  wall,' 
The  antlered  monarch  of  the  waste 
Sprung  from  his  heathery  couch  in  haste. 
But  ere  his  fleet  career  he  took, 
The  dew-drops  from  his  flanks  he  shook; 
Like  crested  leader  proud  and  high 
Tossed  his  beamed  frontlet  to  the  sky ; 
A  moment  gazed  adown  the  dale, 
A  moment  snuffed  the  tainted  gale, 
A  moment  listened  to  the  cry, 


That  thickened  as  the  chase  drew  nigh  ; 
Then,  as  the  headmost  foes  appeared, 
With  one  brave  bound  the  copse  he  cleared, 
And,  stretching  forward  free  and  far, 
Sought  the  wild  heaths  of  Uam-Var. 

in. 

Yelled  on  the  View  the  opening  pack  ; 
Rock,  glen,  and  cavern  paid  them  back  ; 
To  many  a  mingled  sound  at  once 
The  awakened  mountain  gave  response. 
A  hundred  dogs  bayed  deep  and  strong, 
Clattered  a  hundred  steeds  along, 
Their  peal  the  merry  horns  rung  out, 
A  hundred  voices  joined  the  shout ; 
With  hark  and  whoop  and  wild  halloo, 
No  rest  Benvoirlich's  echoes  knew. 


THE   LADY  OF   THE  LAKE. 


»53 


Far  from  the  tumult  fled  the  roe, 
Close  in  her  covert  cowered  the  doe, 
The  falcon,  from  her  cairn  on  high, 
Cast  on  the  rout  a  wondering  eye, 
Till  far  beyond  her  piercing  ken 
The  hurricane  had  swept  the  glen. 
Faint,  and  more  faint,  its  failing  din 
Returned  from  cavern,  cliff,  and  linn, 
And  silence  settled,  wide  and  still, 
On  the  lone  wood  and  mighty  hill. 

IV. 

Less  loud  the  sounds  of  sylvan  war 
Disturbed  the  heights  of  Uam-Var, 
And  roused  the  cavern  where,  't  is  told, 
A  giant  made  his  den  of  old  ; 
For  ere  that  steep  ascent  was  won, 
High  in  his  pathway  hung  the  sun, 
And  many  a  gallant,  stayed  perforce, 
Was  fain  to  breathe  his'faltering  horse, 
And  of  the  trackers  of  the  deer 
Scarce  half  the  lessening  pack  was  near 
So  shrewdly  on  the  mountain-side 
Had  the  bold  burst  their  mettle  tried. 


The  noble  stag  was  pausing  now 
Upon  the  mountain's  southern  brow, 
Where  broad  extended,  far  beneath, 
The  varied  realms  of  fair  Menteith. 
With  anxious  eye  he  wandered  o'er 
Mountain  and  meadow,  moss  and  moor, 
And  pondered  refuge  from  his  toil, 
By  far  Lochard  or  Aberfoyle. 
But  nearer  was  the  copsewood  gray 
That  waved  and  wept  on  Loch  Achray, 


And  mingled  with  the  pine-trees  blue 
On  the  bold  cliffs  of  Benvenue. 
Fresh  vigor  with  the  hope  returned, 
With  flying  foot  the  heath  he  spurned, 
Held  westward  with  unwearied  race, 
And  left  behind  the  panting  chase. 


'T  were  long  to  tell  what  steeds  gave  o'er, 
As  swept  the  hunt  through  Cambusmore  ; 
What  reins  were  tightened  in  despair, 
When  rose  Benledi's  ridge  in  air ; 
Who  flagged  upon  Bochastle's  heath, 
Who  shunned  to  stem  the  flooded  Teith,  — 
For  twice  that  day,  from  shore  to  shore, 
The  gallant  stag  swam  stoutly  o'er. 
Few  were  the  stragglers,  following  far, 
That  reached  the  lake  of  Vennachar ; 
And  when  the  Brigg  of  Turk  was  won, 
The  headmost  horseman  rode  alone. 


Alone,  but  with  unbated  zeal, 
That  horseman  plied  the  scourge  and  steel ; 
For  jaded  now,  and  spent  with  toil, 
Embossed  with  foam,  and  dark  with  soil, 
While  every  gasp  with  sobs  he  drew, 
The  laboring  stag  strained  full  in  view. 
Two  dogs  of  black  Saint  Hubert's  breed, 
Unmatched  for  courage,  breath,  and  speed, 
Fast  on  his  flying  traces  came, 
And  all  but  won  that  desperate  game ; 
For,  scarce  a  spear's  length  from  his  haunch, 
Vindictive  toiled  the  bloodhounds  stanch  ; 
Nor  nearer  might  the  dogs  attain, 
Nor  farther  might  the  quarry  strain. 


154 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL    WORKS. 


Thus  up  the  margin  of  the  lake, 

Between  the  precipice  and  brake, 

O'er  stock  and  rock  their  race  they  take. 

VIII. 

The  Hunter  marked  that  mountain  high, 
The  lone  lake's  western  boundary, 
And  deemed  the  stag  must  turn  to  bay, 
Where  that  huge  rampart  barred  the  way ; 
Already  glorying  in  the  prize, 
Measured  his  antlers  with  his  eyes ; 
For  the  death-wound  and  death-halloo 
Mustered  his  breath,  his  whinyard  drew  :  — 
But  thundering  as  he  came  prepared, 
With  ready  arm  and  weapon  bared, 
The  wily  quarry  shunned  the  shock, 
And  turned  him  from  the  opposing  rock ; 
Then,  dashing  down  a  darksome  glen, 
Soon  lost  to  hound  and  Hunters  ken, 
In  the  deep  Trosachs'  wildest  nook 
His  solitary  refuge  took. 
There,  while  close  couched  the  thicket  shed 
Cold  dews  and  wild  flowers  on  his  head, 
He  heard  the  baffled  dogs  in  vain 
Rave  through  the  hollow  pass  amain, 
Chiding  the  rocks  that  yelled  again. 


Close  on  the  hounds  the  Hunter  came, 
To  cheer  them  on  the  vanished  game  ; 
But,  stumbling  in  the  rugged  dell, 
The  gallant  horse  exhausted  fell. 
The  impatient  rider  strove  in  vain 
To  rouse  him  with  the  spur  and  rein, 


For  the  good  steed,  his  labors  o'er, 
Stretched  his  stiff  limbs,  to  rise  no  more  ; 
Then,  touched  with  pity  and  remorse, 
He  sorrowed  o'er  the  expiring  horse. 
'  I  little  thought,  when  first  thy  rein 
I  slacked  upon  the  banks  of  Seine, 
That  Highland  eagle  e'er  should  feed 
On  thy  fleet  limbs,  my  matchless  steed  ! 
Woe  worth  the  chase,  woe  worth  the  day, 
That  costs  thy  life,  my  gallant  gray  ! ' 


Then  through  the  dell  his  horn  resounds, 
From  vain  pursuit  to  call  the  hounds. 
Back  limped,  with  slow  and  crippled  pace, 
The  sulky  leaders  of  the  chase ; 
Close  to  their  master's  side  they  pressed, 
With  drooping  tail  and  humbled  crest ; 
But  still  the  dingle's  hollow  throat 
Prolonged  the  swelling  bugle-note. 
The  owlets  started  from  their  dream, 
The  eagles  answered  with  their  scream, 
Round  and  around  the  sounds  were  cast, 
Till  echo  seemed  an  answering  blast ; 
And  on  the  Hunter  hied  his  way, 
To  join  some  comrades  of  the  day, 
Yet  often  paused,  so  strange  the  road, 
So  wondrous  were  the  scenes  it  showed. 


The  western  waves  of  ebbing  day 
Rolled  o'er  the  glen  their  level  way : 
Each  purple  peak,  each  flinty  spire, 
Was  bathed  in  floods  of  living:  fire. 


THE  LADY  OF   THE  TAKE. 


155 


But  not  a  setting  beam  could  glow 

Within  the  dark  ravines  below, 

Where  twined  the  path  in  shadow  hid, 

Round  many  a  rocky  pyramid, 

Shooting  abruptly  from  the  dell 

Its  thunder-splintered  pinnacle  ; 

Round  many  an  insulated  mass, 

The  native  bulwarks  of  the  pass, 

Huge  as  the  tower  which  builders  vain 

Presumptuous  piled  on  Shinar's  plain. 

The  rocky  summits,  split  and  rent, 

Formed  turret,  dome,  or  battlement, 

Or  seemed  fantastically  set 

With  cupola  or  minaret, 

Wild  crests  as  pagod  ever  decked, 

Or  mosque  of  Eastern  architect. 

Nor  were  these  earth-born  castles  bare, 

Nor  lacked  they  many  a  banner  fair ; 

For,  from  their  shivered  brows  displayed 

Far  o'er  the  unfathomable  glade, 

All  twinkling  with  the  dewdrop  sheen, 

The  brier-rose  fell  in  streamers  green, 


And  creeping  shrubs  of  thousand  dyes 
Waved  in  the  west-wind's  summer  sighs. 


Boon  nature  scattered,  free  and  wild. 
Each  plant  or  flower,  the  mountain's  child. 
Here  eglantine  embalmed  the  air, 
Hawthorn  and  hazel  mingled  there  ; 
The  primrose  pale  and  violet  flower 
Found  in  each  clift  a  narrow  bower; 
Foxglove  and  nightshade,  side  by  side, 
Emblems  of  punishment  and  pride, 


i;6 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL    WORKS. 


Grouped  their  dark  hues  with  every  stain 
The  weather-beaten  crags  retain. 
With  boughs  that  quaked  at  every  breath, 
Gray  birch  and  aspen  wept  beneath  ; 
Aloft,  the  ash  and  warrior  oak 
Cast  anchor  in  the  rifted  rock  : 
And,  higher  yet,  the  pine-tree  hung 
His  shattered  trunk,  and  frequent  flung, 
Where  seemed  the  cliffs  to  meet  on  high, 
His  boughs  athwart  the  narrowed  sky. 
Highest  of  all,  where  white  peaks  glanced, 
Where    glistening    streamers    waved    and 

danced, 
The  wanderer's  eye*  could  barely  view 
The  summer  heaven's  delicious  blue ; 
So  wondrous  wild,  the  whole  might  seem 
The  scenery  of  a  fairy  dream. 


XIII. 

Onward,  amid  the  copse  'gan  peep 
A  narrow  inlet,  still  and  deep, 
Affording  scarce  such  breadth  of  brim 
As  served  the  wild  duck's  brood  to  swim. 
Lost  for  a  space,  through  thickets  veering. 
But  broader  when  again  appearing, 
Tall  rocks  and  tufted  knolls  their  face 
Could  on  the  dark-blue  mirror  trace  ; 
And  farther  as  the  Hunter  strayed. 
Still  broader  sweep  its  channels  made. 


The  shaggy  mounds  no  longer  stood, 
Emerging  from  entangled  wood, 
But,  wave-encircled,  seemed  to  float, 
Like  castle  girdled  with  its  moat ; 
Yet  broader  floods  extending  still 
Divide  them  from  their  parent  hill, 
Till  each,  retiring,  claims  to  be 
An  islet  in  an  inland  sea. 


And  now,  to  issue  from  the  glen, 
No  pathway  meets  the  wanderer's  ken, 
Unless  he  climb  with  footing  nice 
A  far-projecting  precipice. 
The  broom's  tough  roots  his  ladder  made, 
The  hazel  saplings  lent  their  aid  ; 
And  thus  an  airy  point  he  won, 
Where,  gleaming  with  the  setting  sun, 
One  burnished  sheet  of  living  gold, 
Loch  Katrine  lay  beneath  him  rolled, 
In  all  her  length  far  winding  lay, 
With  promontory,  creek,  and  bay, 
And  islands  that,  empurpled  bright. 
Floated  amid  the  livelier  light, 
And  mountains  that  like  giants  stand 
To  sentinel  enchanted  land. 
High  on  the  south,  huge  Benvenue 
Down  to  the  lake  in  masses  threw 
Crags,   knolls,    and     mounds,     confusedly 
hurled, 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE. 


157 


The  fragments  of  an  earlier  world  ; 
A  wildering  forest  feathered  o'er 
His  ruined  sides  and  summit  hoar, 
While  on  the  north,  through  middle  air, 
Ben-an  heaved  high  his  forehead  bare. 


From  the  steep  promontory  gazed 

The  stranger,  raptured  and  amazed, 

And,  '  What  a  scene  were  here,'  he  cried, 

'  For  princely  pomp  or  churchman's  pride  ! 

On  this  bold  brow,  a  lordly  tower ; 

In  that  soft  vale,  a  lady's  bower  ; 

On  yonder  meadow  far  away, 

The  turrets  of  a  cloister  gray  ; 

How  blithely  might  the  bugle-horn 

Chide  on  the  lake  the  lingering  morn 

How  sweet  at  eve  the  lover's  lute 

Chime  whe;i  the  groves  were  still  and  mute  ! 

And  when  the  midnight  moon  should  lave 

Her  forehead  in  the  silver  wave, 

How  solemn  on  the  ear  would  come 

The  holy  matins'  distant  hum, 

While  the  deep  peal's  commanding  tone 

Should  wake,  in  yonder  islet  lone, 

A  sainted  hermit  from  his  cell, 

To  drop  a  bead  with  every  knell ! 

And  bugle,  lute,  and  bell,  and  all, 


Should  each  bewildered  stranger  call 
To  friendly  feast  and  lighted  hall. 

XVI. 

'  Blithe  were  it  then  to  wander  here ! 
But  now  —  beshrew  yon  nimble  deer  — 
Like  that  same  hermit's,  thin  and  spare, 
The  copse  must  give  my  evening  fare ; 
Some  mossy  bank  my  couch  must  be, 
Some  rustling  oak  my  canopy. 
Yet  pass  we  that ;  the  war  and  chase 
Give  little  choice  of  resting-place ;  — 
A  summer  night  in  greenwood  spent 
Were  but  to-morrow's  merriment : 
But  hosts  may  in  these  wilds  abound, 
Such  as  are  better  missed  than  found  ; 
To  meet  with  Highland  plunderers  here 
Were  worse  than  loss  of  steed  or  deer.  - 
I  am  alone  ;  —  my  bugle-strain 
May  call  some  straggler  of  the  train ; 
Or,  fall  the  worst  that  may  betide, 
Ere  now  this  falchion  has  been  tried.' 

XVII. 

But  scarce  again  his  horn  he  wound, 
When  lo  !  forth  starting  at  the  sound, 
From  underneath  an  aged  oak 
That  slanted  from  the  islet  rock, 


i58 


scorrs  poetical  works. 


A  damsel  guider  of  its  way, 

A  little  skiff  shot  to  the  bay, 

That  round  the  promontory  steep 

Led  its  deep  line  in  graceful  sweep, 

Eddying,  in  almost  viewless  wave, 

The  weeping  willow  twig  to  lave, 

And  kiss,  with  whispering  sound  and  slow, 

The  beach  of  pebbles  bright  as  snow. 

The  boat  had  touched  this  silver  strand 

Just  as  the  Hunter  left  his  stand, 

And  stood  concealed  amid  the  brake, 

To  view  this  Lady  of  the  Lake. 

The  maiden  paused,  as  if  again 


She  thought  to  catch  the  distant  strain. 
With  head  upraised,  and  look  intent, 
And  eye  and  ear  attentive  bent, 
And  locks  flung  back,  and  lips  apart, 
Like  monument  of  Grecian  art, 
In  listening  mood,  she  seemed  to  stand, 
The  guardian  Naiad  of  the  strand. 

XVIII. 

And  ne'er  did  Grecian  chisel  trace 
A  Nymph,  a  Naiad,  or  a  Grace, 
Of  finer  form  or  lovelier  face  ! 


THE  LADY  OF   THE  LAKE. 


159 


What  though  the  sun,  with  ardent  frown, 
Had  slightly  tinged  her  cheek  with  brown,  — 
The  sportive  toil,  which,  short  and  light, 
Had  dyed  her  glowing  hue  so  bright, 
Served  too  in  hastier  swell  to  show 
Short  glimpses  of  a  breast  of  snow : 
What  though  no  rule  of  courtly  grace 
To  measured  mood  had  trained  her  pace,  — 
A  foot  more  light,  a  step  more  true, 
Ne'er  from  the  heath-flower  dashed  the  dew; 
E'en  the  slight  harebell  raised  its  head, 
Elastic  from  her  airy  tread  : 
What  though  upon  her  speech  there  hung 


The  accents  of  the  mountain  tongue,  — 
Those  silver  sounds,  so  soft,  so  dear, 
The  listener  held  his  breath  to  hear  ! 


XIX. 

A  chieftain's  daughter  seemed  the  maid ; 

Her  satin  snood,  her  silken  plaid, 

Her  golden  brooch,  such  birth  betrayed. 

And  seldom  was  a  snood  amid 

Such  wild  luxuriant  ringlets  hid, 

Whose  glossy  black  to  shame  might  bring 

The  plumage  of  the  raven's  wing; 


i6o 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL.  WORKS. 


And  seldom  o'er  a  breast  so  fair 
Mantled  a  plaid  with  modest  care, 
And  never  brooch  the  folds  combined 
Above  a  heart  more  good  and  kind. 
Her  kindness  and  her  worth  to  spy, 
You  need  but  gaze  on  Ellen's  eye ; 
Not  Katrine  in  her  mirror  blue 
Gives  back  the  shaggy  banks  more  true, 
Than  every  free-born  glance  confessed 
The  guileless  movements  of  her  breast ; 
Whether  joy  danced  in  her  dark  eye, 
Or  woe  or  pity  claimed  a  sigh, 


Or  filial  love  was  glowing  there, 
Or  meek  devotion  poured  a  prayer, 
Or  tale  of  injury  called  forth 
The  indignant  spirit  of  the  North. 
One  only  passion  unrevealed 
With  maiden  pride  the  maid  concealed, 
Yet  not  less  purely  felt  the  flame  ;  — 
O,  need  I  tell  that  passion's  name  ? 

xx. 

Impatient  of  the  silent  horn, 

Now  on  the  gale  her  voice  was  borne :  — 


THE  LADY  OF   THE  LAKE. 


161 


'  Father  ! '  she  cried  ;  the  rocks  around 
Loved  to  prolong  the  gentle  sound. 
Awhile  she  paused,  no  answer  came  ;  — 
'  Malcolm,  was  thine  the  blast  ?  '  the  name 
Less  resolutely  uttered  fell, 
The  echoes  could  not  catch  the  swell. 
'  A  stranger  I,'  the  Huntsman  said, 
Advancing  from  the  hazel  shade. 
The  maid,  alarmed,  with  hasty  oar 
Pushed  her  light  shallop  from  the  shore. 
And  when  a  space  was  gained  between, 
Closer  she  drew  her  bosom's  screen  ;  — 
So  forth  the  startled  swan  would  swing, 
So  turn  to  prune  his  ruffled  wing. 
Then  safe,  though  fluttered  and  amazed, 
She  paused,  and  on  the  stranger  gazed. 
Not  his  the  form,  nor  his  the-eye, 
That  youthful  maidens  wont  to  fly. 

XXI. 

On  his  bold  visage  middle  age 
Had  slightly  pressed  its  signet  sage, 
Yet  had  not  quenched  the  open  truth 


And  fiery  vehemence  of  youth  ; 

Forward  and  frolic  glee  was  there, 

The  will  to  do,  the  soul  to  dare, 

The  sparkling  glance,  soon  blown  to  fire, 

Of  hasty  love  or  headlong  ire. 

His  limbs  were  cast  in  manly  mould 

For  hardy  sports  or  contest  bold ; 

And  though  in  peaceful  garb  arrayed, 

And  weaponless  except  his  blade, 

His  stately  mien  as  well  implied 

A  high-born  heart,  a  martial  pride, 

As  if  a  baron's  crest  he  wore, 

And  sheathed  in  armor  trode  the  shore. 

Slighting  the  petty  need  he.showed, 

He  told  of  his  benighted  road  ; 

His  ready  speech  flowed  fair  and  free, 

In  phrase  of  gentlest  courtesy, 

Yet  seemed  that  tone  and  gesture  bland 

Less  used  to  sue  than  to  command. 

XXII. 

Awhile  the  maid  the  stranger  eyed, 
And,  reassured,  at  length  replied, 


1 62 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL   WORKS. 


That  Highland  halls  were  open  still 
To  wildered  wanderers  of  the  hill. 
'  Nor  think  you  unexpected  come 
To  yon  lone  isle,  our  desert  home ; 
Before  the  heath  had  lost  the  dew, 
This  morn,  a  couch  was  pulled  for  you; 
On  yonder  mountain's  purple  head 
Have  ptarmigan  and  heath-cock  bled, 
And  our  broad  nets  have  swept  the  mere, 


1 1  well  believe,  that  ne'er  before 

Your  foot  has  trod  Loch  Katrine's  shore 

But  yet,  as  far  as  yesternight, 

Old  Allan-bane  foretold  your  plight,  — 

A  gray-haired  sire,  whose  eye  intent 

Was  on  the  visioned  future  bent. 

He  saw  your  steed,  a  dappled  gray, 

Lie  dead  beneath  the  birchen  way  ; 

Painted  exact  your  form  and  mien. 


To  furnish  forth  your  evening  cheer.'  — 
'  Now,  by  the  rood,  my  lovely  maid, 
Your  courtesy  has  erred,'  he  said  ; 
'  No  right  have  I  to  claim,  misplaced, 
The  welcome  of  expected  guest. 
A  wanderer,  here  by  fortune  tost, 
My  way,  my  friends,  my  courser  lost, 
I  ne'er  before,  believe  me,  fair, 
Have  ever  drawn  your  mountain  air, 
Till  on  this  lake's  romantic  strand 
I  found  a  fay  in  fairy  land  ! '  — 


1 1  well  believe,'  the  maid  replied, 

As  her  light  skiff  approached  the  side, 


Your  hunting-suit  of  Lincoln  green, 
That  tasselled  horn  so  gayly  gilt, 
That  falchion's  crooked  blade  and  hilt, 
That  cap  with  heron  plumage  trim, 
And  yon  two  hounds  so  dark  and  grim. 
He  bade  that  all  should  ready  be 
To  grace  a  guest  of  fair  degree  ; 
But  light  I  held  his  prophecy, 
And  deemed  it  was  my  father's  horn 
Whose  echoes  o'er  the  lake  were  borne.' 

XXIV. 

The   stranger  smiled  :  —  '  Since   to    your 

home 
A  destined  errant-knight  I  come, 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE. 


163 


Announced  by  prophet  sooth  and  old, 

Doomed,  doubtless,  for  achievement  bold, 

I  "11  lightly  front  each  high  emprise 

For  one  kind  glance  of  those  bright  eyes. 

Permit  me  first  the  task  to  guide 

Your  fairy  frigate  o'er  the  tide.' 

The  maid,  with  smile  suppressed  and  sly, 

The  toil  unwonted  saw  him  try ; 

For  seldom,  sure,  if  e'er  before, 

His  noble  hand  had  grasped  an  oar  : 

Yet  with  main  strength  his  strokes  he  drew, 

And  o'er  the  lake  the  shallop  flew; 

With  heads  erect  and  whimpering  cry, 


Here,  for  retreat  in  dangerous  hour, 
Some  chief  had  framed  a  rustic  bower. 


XXVI. 

It  was  a  lodge  of  ample  size, 

But  strange  of  structure  and  device ; 

Of  such  materials  as  around 

The  workman's  hand  had  readiest  found. 

Lopped  of  their  boughs,  their  hoar  trunks 

bared, 
And  by  the  hatchet  rudely  squared, 
To  give  the  walls  their  destined  height, 


The  hounds  behind  their  passage  ply. 
Nor  frequent  does  the  bright  oar  break 
The  darkening  mirror  of  the  lake, 
Until  the  rocky  isle  they  reach, 
And  moor  their  shallop  on  the  beach. 


xxv. 

The  stranger  viewed  the  shore  around  ; 
'T  was  all  so  close  with  copsewood  bound, 
Nor  track  nor  pathway  might  declare 
That  human  foot  frequented  there, 
Until  the  mountain  maiden  showed 
A  clambering  unsuspected  road, 
That  winded  through  the  tangled  screen, 
And  opened  on  a  narrow  green, 
Where  weeping  birch  and  willow  round 
With  their  long  fibres  swept  the  ground. 


The  sturdy  oak  and  ash  unite  ; 

While  moss  and  clay  and  leaves  combined 

To  fence  each  crevice  from  the  wind. 

The  lighter  pine-trees  overhead 

Their  slender  length  for  rafters  spread, 

And  withered  heath  and  rushes  dry 

Supplied  a  russet  canopy. 

Due  westward,  fronting  to  the  green,       • 

A  rural  portico  was  seen, 

Aloft  on  native  pillars  borne, 

Of  mountain  fir  with  bark  unshorn, 

Where  Ellen's  hand  had  taught  to  twine 

The  ivy  and  Idaean  vine, 

The  clematis,  the  favored  flower 

Which  boasts  the  name  of  virgin-bower, 

And  every  hardy  plant  could  bear 

Loch  Katrine's  keen  and  searching  air. 

An  instant  in  this  porch  she  stayed, 


1 64 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL    WORKS. 


And  gayly  to  the  stranger  said  : 
*  On  heaven  and  on  thy  lady  call, 
And  enter  the  enchanted  hall ! ' 

XXVII. 

'  My  hope,  my  heaven,  my  trust  must  be, 
My  gentle  guide,  in  following  thee  ! '  — 
He  crossed  the  threshold,  —  and  a  clang 
Of  angry  steel  that  instant  rang. 
To  his  bold  brow  his  spirit  rushed, 
But  soon  for  vain  alarm  he  blushed. 
When  on  the  floor  he  saw  displayed. 
Cause  of  the  din,  a  naked  blade 
Dropped  from  the  sheath,  that  careless  flung 
Upon  a  stag's  huge  antlers  swung ; 
For  all  around,  the  walls  to  grace, 
Hung  trophies  of  the  fight  or  chase : 
A  target  there,  a  bugle  here, 
A  battle-axe,  a  hunting-spear, 
And  broadswords,  bows,  and  arrows  store, 
With  the  tusked  trophies  of  the  boar* 
Here  grins  the  wolf  as  when  he  died, 
And  there  the  wild-cat's  brindled  hide 
The  frontlet  of  the  elk  adorns, 
Or  mantles  o'er  the  bison's  horns  ; 


Pennons  and  flags  defaced  and  stained, 
That  blackening  streaks  of  blood  retained, 
And  deer-skins,  dappled,  dun,  and  white, 
WTith  otter's  fur  and  seal's  unite, 
In  rude  and  uncouth  tapestry  all, 
To  garnish  forth  the  sylvan  hall. 

XXVIII. 

The  wondering  stranger  round  him  gazed, 

And  next  the  fallen  weapon  raised  :  — 

Few  were  the  arms  whose  sinewy  strength 

Sufficed  to  stretch  it  forth  at  length. 

And  as  the  brand  he  poised  and  swayed, 

'  I  never  knew  but  one,'  he  said, 

'  Whose  stalwart  arm  might  brook  to  wield 

A  blade  like  this  in  battle-field.' 

She  sighed,  then  smiled  and  took  the  word  : 

'  You  see  the  guardian  champion's  sword ; 

As  light  it  trembles  in  his  hand 

As  in  my  grasp  a  hazel  wand : 

My  sire's  tall  form  might  grace  the  part 

Of  Ferragus  or  Ascabart, 

But  in  the  absent  giant's  hold 

Are  women  now,  and  menials  old.' 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE. 


I65 


XXIX. 

The  mistress  of  the  mansion  came, 
Mature  of  age,  a  graceful  dame, 
Whose  easy  step  and  stately  port 
Had  well  become  a  princely  court, 
To  whom,  though  more  than  kindred  knew. 
Young  Ellen  gave  a  mother's  due. 
Meet  welcome  to  her  guest  she  made, 
And  every  courteous  rite  was  paid, 
That  hospitality  could  claim, 
Though  all  unasked  his  birth  and  name. 
Such  then  the  reverence  to  a  guest. 
That  fellest  foe  might  join  the  feast, 
'And  from  his  deadliest  foeman's  door 
Unquestioned  turn,  the  banquet  o'er. 
At  length  his  rank  the  stranger  names, 
1  The    Knight  of   Snowdoun,  James    Fitz- 

James  : 
Lord  of  a  barren  heritage, 
Which  his  brave  sires,  from  age  to  age. 
By  their  good  swords  had  held  with  toil : 
His  sire  had  fallen  in  such  turmoil, 


And  he,  God  wot,  was  forced  to  stand 
Oft  for  his  right  with  blade  in  hand. 
•This  morning  with  Lord  Moray's  train 
He  chased  a  stalwart  stag  in  vain, 
Outstripped  his  comrades,  missed  the  deer, 
Lost  his  good  steed,  and  wandered  here.' 

XXX. 

Fain  would  the  Knight  in  turn  require 
The  name  and  state  of  Ellen's  sire. 
Well  showed  the  elder  lady's  mien 
That  courts  and  cities  she  had  seen ; 
Ellen,  though  more  her  looks  displayed 
The  simple  grace  of  sylvan  maid, 
In  speech  and  gesture,  form  and  face, 
Showed  she  was  come  of  gentle  race. 
'T  were  strange  in  ruder  rank  to  find 
Such  looks,  such  manners,  and  such  mind. 
Each  hint  the  Knight  of  Snowdoun  gave, 
Dame  Margaret  heard  with  silence  grave ; 
Or  Ellen,  innocently  gay, 
Turned  all  inquiry  light  away  :  — 


1 66 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL    WORKS. 


4  Weird  women  we  !  by  dale  and  down 
We  dwell,  afar  from  tower  and  town. 
We  stem  the  flood,  we  ride  the  blast, 
On  wandering  knights  our  spells  we  cast; 
While  viewless  minstrels  touch  the  string, 
'T  is  thus  our  charmed  rhymes  we  sing.' 
She  sung,  and  still  a  harp  unseen 
Filled  up  the  symphony  between. 

XXXI. 

Song. 

*  Soldier,  rest !  thy  warfare  o'er, 

Sleep  the  sleep  that  knows  not  breaking  ; 
Dream  of  battled  fields  no  more, 

Days  of  danger,  nights  of  waking. 


Ruder  sounds  shall  none  be  near, 
Guards  nor  warders  challenge  here, 
Here  's  no  war-steed's  neigh  and  champing, 
Shouting  clans  or  squadrons  stamping.' 

XXXII. 

She  paused,  —  then,  blushing,  led  the  lay, 
To  grace  the  stranger  of  the  day. 
Her  mellow  notes  awhile  prolong 
The  cadence  of  the  flowing  song, 
Till  to  her  lips  in  measured  frame 
The  minstrel  verse  spontaneous  came. 

Song  Continue*!. 

'  Huntsman,  rest !  thy  chase  is  done  ; 
While  our  slumbrous  spells  assail  ye, 


In  our  isle's  enchanted  hall, 

Hands  unseen  thy  couch  are  strewing, 
Fairy  strains  of  music  fall, 

Every  sense  in  slumber  dewing. 
Soldier,  rest !  thy  warfare  o'er, 
Dream  of  fighting  fields  no  more  ; 
Sleep  the  sleep  that  knows  not  breaking, 
Morn  of  toil,  nor  night  of  waking. 

1  No  rude  sound  shall  reach  thine  ear, 

Armor's  clang  of  war-steed  champing, 
Trump  nor  pibroch  summon  here 

Mustering  clan  or  squadron  tramping. 
Yet  the  lark's  shrill  fife  may  come 

At  the  daybreak  from  the  fallow, 
And  the  bittern  sound  his  drum. 

Booming  from  the  sedgy  shallow. 


Dream  not,  with  the  rising  sun, 

Bugles  here  shall  sound  reveille. 
Sleep  !  the  deer  is  in  his  den  ; 
Sleep  !  thy  hounds  are  by  thee  lying ; 
Sleep  !  nor  dream  in  yonder  glen 
How  thy  gallant  steed  lay  dying. 
Huntsman,  rest !  thy  chase  is  done  ; 
Think  not  of  the  rising  sun, 
For  at  dawning  to  assail  ye  • 

Here  no  bugles  sound  reveille.' 

XXXIII. 

The  hall  was  cleared,  —  the  stranger's  bed 
Was  there  of  mountain  heather  spread, 
Where  oft  a  hundred  guests  had  lain, 
And  dreamed  their  forest  sports  again. 


THE  LADY  OF   THE  LAKE. 


167 


But  vainly  did  the  heath-flower  shed 
Its  moorland  fragrance  round  his  head ; 
Not  Ellen's  spell  had  lulled  to  rest 
The  fever  of  his  troubled  breast. 
In  broken  dreams  the  image  rose 
Of  varied  perils,  pains,  and  woes  : 
His  steed  now  flounders  in  the  brake, 
Now  sinks  his  barge  upon  the  lake  ; 
Now  leader  of  a  broken  host, 
His  standard  falls,  his  honor 's  lost. 
Then,  — from  my  couch  may  heavenly  might 
Chase  that  worst  phantom  of  the  night !  — 
Again  returned  the  scenes  of  youth, 
Of  confident,  undoubting  truth  ; 
Again  his  soul  he  interchanged 
With  friends  whose  hearts  were   long  es- 
tranged. 
They  come,  in  dim  procession  led, 
The  cold,  the  faithless,  and  the  dead ; 
As  warm  each  hand,  each  brow  as  gay, 
As  if  they  parted  yesterday. 
And  doubt  distracts  him  at  the  view,  — 
O  were  his  senses  false  or  true? 
Dreamed  he  of  death  or  broken  vow, 
Or  is  it  all  a  vision  now  ? 


xxxiv. 

At  length,  with  Ellen  in  a  grove 

He  seemed  to  walk  and  speak  of  love  ; 

She  listened  with  a  blush  and  sigh, 

His  suit  was  warm,  his  hopes  were  high. 

He  sought  her  yielded  hand  to  clasp, 

And  a  cold  gauntlet  met  his  grasp  : 

The  phantom's  sex  was  changed  and  gone. 

Upon  its  head  a  helmet  shone ; 

Slowly  enlarged  to  giant  size, 

With    darkened     cheek   and    threatening 

eyes, 
The  grisly  visage,  stern  and  hoar, 
To  Ellen  still  a  likeness  bore.  — 
He  woke,  and,  panting  with  affright, 
Recalled  the  vision  of  the  night. 
The  hearth's  decaying  brands  were  red, 
And  deep  and  dusky  lus-tre  shed, 
Half  showing,  half  concealing,  all 
The  uncouth  trophies  of  the  hall.. 
Mid  those  the  stranger  fixed  his  eye 
Where  that  huge  falchion  hung  on  high, 
And    thoughts   on   thoughts,   a    countless 

throng, 


168 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL    WORKS. 


Rushed,  chasing  countless  thoughts  along, 

Until,  the  giddy  whirl  to  cure, 

He  rose  and  sought  the  moonshine  pure. 


XXXV. 

The  wild  rose,  eglantine,  and  broom 
Wasted  around  their  rich  perfume ; 
The  birch-trees  wept  in  fragrant  balm ; 
The  aspens  slept  beneath  the  calm  ; 
The  silver  light,  with  quivering  glance, 
Played  on  the  water's  still  expanse,  — 
Wild  were  the  heart  whose  passion's  sway 
Could  rage  beneath  the  sober  ray  ! 
He  felt  its  calm,  that  warrior  guest, 
While  thus  he  communed  with  his  breast :  — 
'Why  is  it,  at  each  turn  I  trace 


Some  memory  of  that  exiled  race  ? 
Can  I  not  mountain  maiden  spy, 
But  she  must  bear  the  Douglas  eye  ? 
Can  I  not  view  a  Highland  brand, 
But  it  must  match  the  Douglas  hand  ? 
Can  I  not  frame  a  fevered  dream, 
But  still  the  Douglas  is  the  theme  ? 
I  '11  dream  no  more,  —  by  manly  mind 
Not  even  in  sleep  is  will  resigned. 
My  midnight  orisons  said  o'er, 
I  '11  turn  to  rest,  and  dream  no  more.' 
His  midnight  orisons  he  told, 
A  prayer  with  every  bead  of  gold, 
Consigned  to  heaven  his  cares  and  woes, 
And  sunk  in  undisturbed  repose, 
Until  the  heath-cock  shrilly  crew, 
And  morning  dawned  on  Benvenue. 


THE  LADY  OF   THE  LAKE. 


169 


E\)t  Hatig  of  tfje  Hake. 


CANTO    SECOND. 


THE   ISLAND. 


At  morn  the  black-cock  trims  his  jetty  wing, 
'T  is  morning  prompts  the  linnet's  blith- 
est lay, 
All  Nature's  children  feel  the  matin  spring 

Of  life  reviving,  with  reviving  day  ; 
And  while  yon  little  bark  glides  down  the 
bay, 
Wafting  the  stranger  on  his  way  again, 
Morn's  genial  influence  roused  a  minstrel 

sray» 

And  sweetly  o'er  the  lake  was  heard  thy 
strain, 
Mixed  with  the  sounding  harp,  O  white- 
haired  Allan-bane  ! 


11. 
Song. 

\  Not  faster  yonder  rowers'  might 
Flings  from  their  oars  the  spray, 

Not  faster  yonder  rippling  bright, 

That  tracks  the  shallop's  course  in  light, 
Melts  in  the  lake  away, 

Than  men  from  memory  erase 

The  benefits  of  former  days  ; 

Then,  stranger,  go  !  good  speed  the  while, 

Nor  think  again  of  the  lonely  isle. 

'  High  place  to  thee  in  royal  court, 

High  place  in  battled  line, 
Good  hawk  and  hound  for  sylvan  sport ! 
Where  beauty  sees  the  brave  resort, 

The  honored  meed  be  thine  ! 
True  be  thy  sword,  thy  friend  sincere, 
Thy  lady  constant,  kind,  and  dear, 
And  lost  in  love's  and  friendship's  smile 
Be  memory  of  the  lonely  isle  ! 


i;o 


SCOTT S  POETICAL    WORKS. 


in. 


.Song  Continue*. 

*  But  if  beneath  yon  southern  sky 

A  plaided  stranger  roam. 
Whose  drooping  crest  and  stifled  sigh, 
And  sunken  cheek  and  heavy  eye, 

Pine  for  his  Highland  home  ; 
Then,  warrior,  then  be  thine  to  show 
The  care  that  soothes  a  wanderer's  woe  ; 
Remember  then  thy  hap  erewhile, 
A  stranger  in  the  lonely  isle. 

*  Or  if  on  life's  uncertain  main 

Mishap  shall  mar  thy  sail ; 
If  faithful,  wise,  and  brave  in  vain, 
Woe,  want,  and  exile  thou  sustain 

Beneath  the  fickle  gale  ; 
Waste  not  a  sigh  on  fortune  changed, 
On  thankless  courts,  or  friends  estranged, 
But  come  where  kindred  worth  shall  smile, 
To  greet  thee  in  the  lonely  isle.' 

IV. 

As  died  the  sounds  upon  the  tide, 
The  shallop  reached  the  mainland  side, 
And  ere  his  onward  way  he  took, 
The  stranger  cast  a  lingering  look, 
Where  easily  his  eye  might  reach 
The  Harper  on  the  islet  beach, 
Reclined  against  a  blighted  tree, 


As  wasted,  gray,  and  worn  as  he. 

To  minstrel  meditation  given, 

His  reverend  brow  was  raised  to  heaven, 

As  from  the  rising  sun  to  claim 

A  sparkle  of  inspiring  flame. 

His  hand,  reclined  upon  the  wire, 

Seemed  watching  the  awakening  fire; 

So  still  he  sat  as  those  who  wait 

Till  judgment  speak  the  doom  of  fate 

So  still,  as  if  no  breeze  might  dare 

To  lift  one  lock  of  hoary  hair ; 

So  still,  as  life  itself  were  fled 

In  the  last  sound  his  harp  had  sped. 


Upon  a  rock  with  lichens  wild, 
Beside  him  Ellen  sat  and  smiled.  — 
Smiled  she  to  see  the  stately  drake 
Lead  forth  his  fleet  upon  the  lake, 
While  her  vexed  spaniel  from  the  beach 
Bayed  at  the  prize  beyond  his  reach  ? 
Yet  tell  me,  then,  the  maid  who  knows. 
Why  deepened  on  her  cheek  the  rose  ?  — 
Forgive,  forgive,  Fidelity  ! 
Perchance  the  maiden  smiled  to  see 
Yon  parting  lingerer  wave  adieu, 
And  stop  and  turn  to  wave  anew ; 
And,  lovely  ladies,  ere  your  ire 
Condemn  the  heroine  of  my  lyre, 
Show  me  the  fair  would  scorn  to  spy 
And  prize  such  conquest  of  her  eye  ! 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE. 


71 


While  yet  he  loitered  on  the  spot, 
It  seemed  as  Ellen  marked  him  not ; 
But  when  he  turned  him  to  the  glade, 
One  courteous  parting  sign  she  made  ; 
And  after,  oft  the  knight  would  say, 
That  not  when  prize  of  festal  day 
Was  dealt  him  by  the  brightest  fair 
Who  e'er  wore  jewel  in  her  hair, 
So  highly  did  his  bosom  swell 
As  at  that  simple  mute  farewell. 
Now  with  a  trusty  mountain-guide, 
And  his  dark  stag-hounds  by  his  side, 
He  parts, — the  majd,  unconscious  still, 
Watched  him  wind  slowly  round  the  hill ; 
But  when  his  stately  form  was  hid, 


For  of  his  clan,  in  hall  and  bower, 

Young  Malcolm  Graeme  was  held  the  flower. 

VII. 

The  minstrel  waked  his  harp,  —  three  times 
Arose  the  well-known  martial  chimes, 
And  thrice  their  high  heroic  pride 
In  melancholy  murmurs  died. 
'Vainly  thou  bidst,  O  noble  maid,' 
Clasping  his  withered  hands,  he  said, 
1  Vainly  thou  bidst  me  wake  the  strain, 
Though  all  unwont  to  bid  in  vain. 
Alas  !  than  mine  a  mightier  hand 
Has  tuned  my  harp,  my  strings  has  spanned  < 
I  touch  the  chords  of  joy,  but  low 
And  mournful  answer  notes  of  woe  ; 


The  guardian  in  her  bosom  chid,  — 

'  Thy  Malcolm !  vain  and  selfish  maid  ! ' 

'T  was  thus  upbraiding  conscience  said,  — 

'  Not  so  had  Malcolm  idly  hung 

On  the  smooth  phrase  of  Southern  tongue ; 

Not  so  had  Malcolm  strained  his  eye 

Another  step  than  thine  to  spy.'  — 

*  Wake,  Allan-bane,'  aloud  she  cried 

To  the  old  minstrel  by  her  side, — 

1  Arouse  thee  from  thy  moody  dream! 

I  '11  give  thy  harp  heroic  theme, 

And  warm  thee  with  a  noble  name  ; 

Pour  forth  the  glory  of  the  Graeme  ! ' 

Scarce  from  her  lip  the  word  had  rushed, 

When  deep  the  conscious  maiden  blushed ; 


And  the  proud  march  which  victors  tread 

Sinks  in  the  wailing  for  the  dead. 

O,  well  for  me,  if  mine  alone 

That  dirge's  deep  prophetic  tone  ! 

If,  as  my  tuneful  fathers  said, 

This  harp,  which  erst  Saint  Modan  swayed, 

Can  thus  its  master's  fate  foretell, 

Then  welcome  be  the  minstrel's  knell ! 


1  But  ah  !  dear  lady,  thus  it  sighed, 

The  eve  thy  sainted  mother  died ; 

And  such  the  sounds  which,  while  I  strove 

To  wake  a  lay  of  war  or  love, 


72 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL    WORKS. 


Came  marring  all  the  festal  mirth, 
Appalling  me  who  gave  them  birth, 
And,  disobedient  to  my  call, 
Wailed  loud  through  Bothweirs  bannered 

hall, 
Ere  Douglases,  to  ruin  driven, 
Were  exiled  from  their  native  heaven.  — 
O  !  if  yet  worse  mishap  and  woe 
My  master's  house  must  undergo, 
Or  aught  but  weal  to  Ellen  fair 
Brood  in  these  accents  of  despair. 
No  future  bard,  sad  Harp  !  shall  fling 
Triumph  or  rapture  from  thy  string  ; 
One  short,  one  final  strain  shall  flow, 
Fraught  with  unutterable  woe, 
Then  shivered  shall  thy  fragments  lie, 
Thy  master  cast  him  down  and  die  ! ' 


IX. 

Soothing  she  answered  him  :  '  Assuage, 

Mine  honored  friend,  the  fears  of  age; 

All  melodies  to  thee  are  known  9 

That  harp  has  rung  or  pipe  has  blown, 

In  Lowland  vale  or  Highland  glen, 

From  Tweed  to  Spey  —  what  marvel,  then, 

At  times  unbidden  notes  should  rise, 

Confusedly  bound  in  memory's  ties, 

Entangling,  as  they  rush  along, 

The  war-march  with  the  funeral  song?  — 


Small  ground  is  now  for  boding  fear; 

Obscure,  but  safe,  we  rest  us  here. 

My  sire,  in  native  virtue  great, 

Resigning  lordship,  lands,  and  state, 

Not  then  to  fortune  more  resigned 

Than  yonder  oak  might  give  the  wind: 

The  graceful  foliage  storms  may  reave. 

The  noble  stem  they  cannot  grieve. 

For  me  '  —  she  stooped,  and,  looking  round. 

Plucked  a  blue  harebell  from  the  ground,  — 

'  For  me,  whose  memory  scarce  conveys 

An  image  of  more  splendid  days, 

This  little  flower  that  loves  the  lea 

May  well  my  simple  emblem  be ; 

It  drinks  heaven's  dew  as  blithe  as  rose 

That  in  the  King's  own  garden  grows : 

And  when  I  place  it  in  my  hair, 

Allan,  a  bard  is  bound  to  swear 

He«ie'er  saw  coronet  so  fair.' 

Then  playfully  the  chaplet  wild 

She  wreathed  in  her  dark  locks,  and  smiled. 


Her  smile,  her  speech,  with  winning  sway, 
Wiled  the  old  Harper's  mood  away. 
With  such  a  look  as  hermits  throw, 
When  angels  stoop  to  soothe  their  woe, 
He  gazed,  till  fond  regret  and  pride 
Thrilled  to  a  tear,  then  thus  replied  : 


THE  LADY  OF   THE   LAKE. 


173 


'  Loveliest  and  best !  thou 

little  know'st 
The  rank,  the  honors,  thou 

hast  lost ! 
O,  might  I  live  to  see  thee 

grace, 
In    Scotland's    court,    thy 

birthright  place, 
To  see  my  favorite's  step 

advance 
The  lightest  in  the  courtly 

dance, 
The  cause  of  every  gallant's 

sigh, 
And  leading  star  of  every  eye, 
And  theme  of  every  minstrel's  art, 
The  Lady  of  the  Bleeding  Heart ! ' 


4  Fair  dreams  are  these,'  the  maiden  cried. 
Light  was  her  accent,  yet  she  sighed,  — 
'  Yet  is  this  mossy  rock  to  me 
Worth  splendid  chair  and  canopy  ; 


Would,  at  my  suit,  thou  know'st,  delay 
A  Lennox  foray  —  for  a  day.'  — 


XII. 


The  ancient  bard  her  glee  repressed  : 
1  111  hast  thou  chosen  theme  for  jest ! 
For  who,  through  all  this  western  wild, 
Named  Black  Sir  Roderick  e'er,  and  smiled  ? 
In  Holy-Rood  a  knight  he  slew  ;, 


Nor  would  my  footstep  spring  more  gay 
In  courtly  dance  than  blithe  strathspey, 
Nor  half  so  pleased  mine  ear  incline 
To  royal  minstrel's  lay  as  thine. 
And  then  for  suitors  proud  and  high, 
To  bend  before  my  conquering  eye,  — 
Thou,  flattering  bard  !  thyself  wilt  say, 
That  grim  Sir  Roderick  owns  its  sway. 
The  Saxon  scourge,  Clan-Alpine's  pride, 
The  terror  of  Loch  Lomond's  side, 


I  saw,  when  back  the  dirk  he  drew, 
Courtiers  give  place  before  the  stride 
Of  the  undaunted  homicide; 
And  since,  though  outlawed,  hath  his  hand 
Full  sternly  kept  his  mountain  land. 
Who  else  dared  give  —  ah  !  woe  the  day, 
That  I  such  hated  truth  should  say  !  — 
The  Douglas,  like  a  stricken  deer, 
Disowned  by  every  noble  peer, 
Even  the  rude  refuge  we  have  here  ? 


174 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL    WORKS. 


Alas,  this  wild  marauding  Chief 

Alone  might  hazard  our  relief, 

And  now  thy  maiden  charms  expand, 

Looks  for  his  guerdon  in  thy  hand : 

Full  soon  may  dispensation  sought, 

To  back  his  suit,  from  Rome  be  brought. 

Then,  though  an  exile  on  the  hill. 

Thy  father,  as  the  Douglas,  still 

Be  held  in  reverence  and  fear ; 

And  though  to  Roderick  thou  'rt  so  dear 

That  thou  mightst  guide  with  silken  thread, 

Slave  of  thy  will,  this  chieftain  dread, 

Yet,  O  loved  maid,  thy  mirth  refrain  ! 

Thy  hand  is  on  a  lion's  mane.'  — 

XIII. 

'  Minstrel,'  the  maid  replied,  and  high 
Her  father's  soul  glanced  from  her  eye, 
4  My  debts  to  Roderick's  house  I  know  : 
All  that  a  mother  could  bestow 
To  Lady  Margaret's  care  I  owe, 
Since  first  an  orphan  in  the  wild 
She  sorrowed  o'er  her  sister's  child  ; 
To  her  brave  chieftain  son,  from  ire 
Of  Scotland's  king  who  shrouds  my  sire. 
A  deeper,  holier  debt  is  owed  ; 
And,  could  I  pay  it  with  my  blood, 


Allan  !  Sir  Roderick  should  command 
My  blood,  my  life,  —  but  not  my  hand. 
Rather  will  Ellen  Douglas  dwell 
A  votaress  in  Maronnan's  cell ; 
Rather  through  realms  beyond  the  sea, 
Seeking  the  world's  cold  charity, 
Where  ne'er  was  spoke  a  Scottish  word, 
And  ne'er  the  name  of  Douglas  heard, 
An  outcast  pilgrim  will  she  rove, 
Than  wed  the  man  she  cannot  love. 

XIV. 

'  Thou   shak'st,   good    friend,   thy   tresses 

gray,  — 
That  pleading  look,  what  can  it  say 
But  what  I  own  ?  —  I  grant  him  brave, 
But  wild  as  Bracklinn's  thundering  wave ; 
And  generous,  —  save  vindictive  mood 
Or  jealous  transport  chafe  his  blood  : 
I  grant  him  true  to  friendly  band, 
As  his  claymore  is  to  his  hand  ; 
But  O  !  that  very  blade  of  steel 
More  mercy  for  a  foe  would  feel : 
I  grant  him  liberal,  to  fling 
Among  his  clan  the  wealth  they  bring, 
When  back  by  lake  and  glen  they  wind, 
And  in  the  Lowland  leave  behind, 


THE  LADY  OF   THE  LAKE. 


175 


Where  once  some  pleasant  hamlet  stood, 
A  mass  of  ashes  slaked  with  blood. 
The  hand  that  for  my  father  fought 
I  honor,  as  his  daughter  ought ; 
But  can  I  clasp  it  reeking  red 
From  peasants  slaughtered  in  their  shed  ? 
No  !  wildly  while  his  virtues  gleam, 
They  make  his  passions  darker  seem, 


And  flash  along  his  spirit  high, 
Like  lightning  o'er  the  midnight 


sky. 


What  for  this  island,  deemed  of  old 
Clan-Alpine's  last  and  surest  hold  ? 
If  neither  spy  nor  foe,  I  pray 
What  yet  may  jealous  Roderick  say  ?  — 
Nay,  wave  not  thy  disdainful  head  ! 
Bethink  thee  of  the  discord  dread 
That  kindled  when  at  Beltane  game 
Thou  ledst  the  dance  with  Malcolm  Graeme 
Still,  though  thy  sire  the  peace  renewed, 
Smoulders  in  Roderick's  breast  the  feud  : 


While  yet  a  child,  —  and  children  know, 
Instinctive  taught,  the  friend  and  foe,  — 
I  shuddered  at  his  brow  of  gloom, 
His  shadowy  plaid  and  sable  plume  ; 
A  maiden  grown,  I  ill  could  bear 
His  haughty  mien  and  lordly  air: 
But,  if  thou  join'st  a  suitor's  claim, 
In  serious  mood,  to  Roderick's  name, 
I  thrill  with  anguish  !  or,  if  e'er 
A  Douglas  knew  the  word,  with  fear. 
To  change  such  odious  theme  were  best,  --- 
What    think'si     thou    of      our     stranger 
guest?'  — 

xv. 

'  What  think  I  of  him  ?  — woe  the  while 
That  brought  such  wanderer  to  our  isle  ! 
Thy  father's  battle-brand,  of  yore 
For  Tine-man  forged  by  fairy  lore, 
What  time  he  leagued,  no  longer  foes, 
His  Border  spears  with  Hotspur's  bows, 
Did,  self-unscabbarded,  foreshow 
The  footstep  of  a  secret  foe. 
If  courtly  spy  hath  harbored  here. 
What  may  we  for  the  Douglas  fear  ? 


Beware  !  —  But    hark  !    what   sounds   are 

these  ? 
My  dull  ears  catch  no  faltering  breeze, 
No  weeping  birch  nor  aspens  wake, 
Nor  breath  is  dimpling  in  the  lake  ; 
Still  is  the  canna's  hoary  beard, 
Yet,  by  my  minstrel  faith,  I  heard  — 
And  hark  again  !  some  pipe  of  war 
Sends  the  bold  pibroch  from  afar.' 


Far  up  the  lengthened  lake  were  spied 
Four  darkening  specks  upon  the  tide, 
That,  slow  enlarging  on  the  view, 
Four  manned  and  masted  barges  grew, 
And,  bearing  downwards  from  Glengyle, 
Steered  full  upon  the  lonely  isle ; 
The  point  of  Brianchoil  they  passed, 
And,  to  the  windward  as  they  cast, 
Against  the  sun  they  gave  to  shine 
The  bold  Sir  Roderick's  bannered  Pine. 
Nearer  and  nearer  as  they  bear, 
Spears,  pikes,  and  axes  flash  in  air. 
Now  might  you  see  the  tartans  brave, 
And  plaids  and  plumage  dance  and  wave : 


176 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL    WORKS. 


Now  see  the  bonnets  sink  and  rise, 
As  his  tough  oar  the  rower  plies  : 
See,  flashing  at  each  sturdy  stroke. 
The  wave  ascending  into  smoke  : 
See  the  proud  pipers  on  the  bow, 
And  mark  the  gaudy  streamers  flow 
From  their  loud  chanters  down,  and  sweep 
The  furrowed  bosom  of  the  deep, 
As,  rushing  through  the  lake  amain, 
They  plied  the  ancient  Highland  strain. 


Ever,  as  on  they  bore,  more  loud 
And  louder  rung  the  pibroch  proud. 
At  first  the  sounds,  by  distance  tame, 
Mellowed  along  the  waters  came, 
And,  lingering  long  by  cape  and  bay, 
Wailed  every  harsher  note  away, 
Then  bursting  bolder  on  the  ear, 
The  clan's  shrill  Gathering  they  could  hear, 
Those  thrilling  sounds  that  call  the  might 
Of  old  Clan-Alpine  to  the  fight. 
Thick  beat  the  rapid  notes,  as  when 
The  mustering  hundreds  shake  the  glen, 
And  hurrying  at  the  signal  dread, 
The  battered  earth  returns  their  tread. 
Then  prelude  light,  of  livelier  tone, 
Expressed  their  merry  marching  on, 
Ere  peal  of  closing  battle  rose, 


With  mingled  outcry,  shrieks,  and  blows  ; 
And  mimic  din  of  stroke  and  ward. 
As  broadsword  upon  target  jarred  : 
And  groaning  pause,  ere  yet  again, 
Condensed,  the  battle  yelled  amain  : 
The  rapid  charge,  the  rallying  shout, 
Retreat  borne  headlong  into  rout, 
And  bursts  of  triumph,  to  declare 
Clan- Alpine's  conquest  —  all  were  there. 
Nor  ended  thus  the  strain,  but  slow 
Sunk  in  a  moan  prolonged  and  low, 
And  changed  the  conquering  clarion  swell 
For  wild  lament  o'er  those  that  fell. 

XVIII. 

The  war-pipes  ceased,  but  lake  and  hill 
Were  busy  with  their  echoes  still ; 
And,  when  they  slept,  a  vocal  strain 
Bade  their  hoarse  chorus  wake  again, 
While  loud  a  hundred  clansmen  raise 
Their  voices  in  their  Chieftain's  praise. 
Each  boatman,  bending  to  his  oar, 
With  measured  sweep  the  burden  bore, 
In  such  wild  cadence  as  the  breeze 
Makes  through  December's  leafless  trees. 
The  chorus  first  could  Allan  know, 
'  Roderick  Vich  Alpine,  ho  !  iro  ! ' 
And  near,  and  nearer  as  they  rowed, 
Distinct  the  martial  ditty  flowed. 


THE   LADY  OF  THE  LAKE. 


177 


XIX. 

Boat  Song. 

Hail  to  the  Chief  who  in  triumph  advances  ! 
Honored  and  blessed  be  the  ever-green 
Pine! 
Long  may  the  tree,in  his  banner  that  glances, 
Flourish,  the  shelter  and  grace  of  our 
line  ! 
Heaven  send  it  happy  dew, 
Earth  lend  it  sap  anew, 
Gayly  to  bourgeon  and  broadly  to  grow, 
While  every  Highland  glen 
Sends  our  shout  back  again, 
'  Roderigh  Vich  Alpine  dhu,  ho  !  ieroe 

Ours  is  no   sapling,   chance-sown   by  the 
fountain, 
Blooming  at  Beltane,  in  winter  to  fade ; 
When  the  whirlwind  has  stripped  every  leaf 
on  the  mountain, 
The  more  shall  Clan-Alpine  exult  in  her 
shade. 
Moored  in  the  rifted  rock, 
Proof  to  the  tempest's  shock, 
Firmer  he  roots  him  the  ruder  it  blow  ; 
Menteith  and  Breadalbane,  then, 
Echo  his  praise  again. 
'Roderigh  Vich  Alpine  dhu,  ho  !  ieroe  ! ' 


xx. 

Proudly  our  pibroch  has  thrilled  in  Glen 
Fruin, 
And  Bannochar's  groans  to  our  slogan 
replied ; 
Glen  Luss  and  Ross-dhu,  they  are  smoking 
in  ruin, 
And  the  best  of  Loch  Lomond  lie  dead 
on  her  side. 
Widow  and  Saxon  maid 
Long  shall  lament  our  raid, 
Think  of  Clan-Alpine  with  fear  and  with 
woe ; 
Lennox  and  Leven-glen 
Shake  when  they  hear  again, 
1  Roderigh  Vich  Alpine  dhu,  ho  !  ieroe  ! ' 

Row,  vassals,  row,   for  the   pride  of  the 
Highlands ! 
Stretch  to  your  oars  for  the  ever-green 
Pine ! 
O  that  the  rosebud  that  graces  yon  islands 
Were  wreathed  in  a  garland  around  him 
to  twine ! 
O  that  some  seedling  gem, 
Worthy  such  noble  stem, 
Honored  and  blessed  in   their  shadow 
might  grow ! 


i78 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL   WORKS. 


Loud  should  Clan- Alpine  then 
Ring  from  her  deepmost  glen, 
1  Roderigh  Vich  Alpine  dhu,  ho  !  ieroe  ! ' 

XXI. 

With  all  her  joyful  female  band 

Had  Lady  Margaret  sought  the  strand. 

Loose  on  the  breeze  their  tresses  flew, 

And  high  their  snowy  arms  they  threw, 

As  echoing  back  with  shrill  acclaim, 

And  chorus  wild,  the  Chieftain's  name ; 

While,  prompt  to  please,  with  mother's  art, 

The  darling  passion  of  his  heart, 

The  Dame  called  Ellen  to  the  strand, 

To  greet  her  kinsman  ere  he  land  : 

1  Come,  loiterer,  come  !  a  Douglas  thou, 

And  shun  to  wreathe  a  victor's  brow  ? ' 

Reluctantly  and  slow,  the  maid 

The  unwelcome  summoning  obeyed, 

And  when  a  distant  bugle  rung, 

In  the  mid-path  aside  she  sprung  :  — 

1  List,  Allan-bane  !  From  mainland  cast 

I  hear  my  father's  signal  blast. 

Be  ours,'  she  cried,  '  the  skiff  to  guide, 

And  waft  him  from  the  mountain-side.' 

Then,  like  a  sunbeam,  swift  and  bright, 


She  darted  to  her  shallop  light, 
And,  eagerly  while  Roderick  scanned, 
For  her  dear  form,  his  mother's  band, 
The  islet  far  behind  her  lay, 
And  she  had  landed  in  the  bay. 


XXII. 

Some  feelings  are  to  mortals  given 

With  less  of  earth  in  them  than  heaven ; 

And  if  there  be  a  human  tear 

From  passion's  dross  refined  and  clear, 

A  tear  so  limpid  and  so  meek 

It  would  not  stain  an  angel's  cheek,         * 

'T  is  that  which  pious  fathers  shed 

Upon  a  duteous  daughter's  head  ! 

And  as  the  Douglas  to  his  breast 

His  darling  Ellen  closely  pressed, 

Such  holy  drops  her  tresses  steeped, 

Though  't  was  an  hero's  eye  that  weeped. 

Nor  while  on  Ellen's  faltering  tongue 

Her  filial  welcomes  crowded  hung, 

Marked  she  that  fear  — affection's  proof  — 

Still  held  a  graceful  youth  aloof ; 

No !  not  till  Douglas  named  his  name, 

Although  the  youth  was  Malcolm  Graeme. 


THE  LADY  OF   THE  LAKE. 


179 


XXIII. 

Allan,  with  wistful  look  the  while, 

Marked  Roderick  landing  on  the  isle  ; 

His  master  piteously  he  eyed, 

Then  gazed  upon  the  Chieftain's  pride, 

Then  dashed  with  hasty  hand  away 

From  his  dimmed  eye  the  gathering  spray  ; 

And  Douglas,  as  his  hand  he  laid 

On  Malcolm's  shoulder,  kindly  said : 

*  Canst   thou,   young  friend,    no    meaning 

spy 

In  my  poor  follower's  glistening  eye? 
I  '11  tell  thee  :  —  he  recalls  the  day 


And  Bothwell's  bards  flung  back  my  praise, 
As  when  this  old  man's  silent  tear, 
And  this  poor  maid's  affection  dear, 
A  welcome  give  more  kind  and  true 
Than  aught  my  better  fortunes  knew. 
Forgive,  my  friend,  a  father's  boast,  — 
O,  it  out-beggars  all  I  lost ! ' 

XXIV. 

Delightful  praise  !  —  like  summer  rose, 
That  brighter  in  the  dew-drop  glows, 
The  bashful  maiden's  cheek  appeared, 
For  Douglas  spoke,  and  Malcolm  heard. 


When  in  my  praise  he  led  the  lay 
O'er  the  arched  gate  of  Bothwell  proud, 
While  many  a  minstrel  answered  loud, 
When  Percy's  Norman  pennon,  won 
In  bloody  field,  before  me  shone, 
And  twice  ten  knights,  the  least  a  name 
As  mighty  as  yon  Chief  may  claim, 
Gracing  my  pomp,  behind  me  came. 
Yet  trust  me,  Malcolm,  not  so  proud 
Was  I  of  all  that  marshalled  crowd, 
Though   the   waned    crescent    owned   my 

might, 
And  in  my  train  trooped  lord  and  knight, 
Though  Blantyre  hymned  her  holiest  lays, 


The  flush  of  shame-faced  joy  to  hide, 
The  hounds,  the  hawk,  her  cares  divide  ; 
The  loved  caresses  of  the  maid 
The  dogs  with  crouch  and  whimper  paid ; 
And,  at  her  whistle,  on  her  hand 
The  falcon  took  his  favorite  stand, 
Closed  his  dark  wing,  relaxed  his  eye, 
Nor,  though  unhooded,  sought  to  fly. 
And,  trust,  while  in  such  guise  she  stood, 
Like  fabled  Goddess  of  the  wood, 
That  if  a  father's  partial  thought 
O'erweighed  her  worth  and  beauty  aught, 
Well  might  the  lover's  judgment  fail 
To  balance  with  a  juster  scale  ; 


i8o 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL    WORKS. 


For  with  each  secret  glance  he  stole, 
The  fond  enthusiast  sent  his  soul. 


XXV. 

Of  stature  fair,  and  slender  frame, 
But  firmly  knit,  was  Malcolm  Graeme. 
The  belted  plaid  and  tartan  hose 
Did  ne'er  more  graceful  limbs  disclose ; 
His  flaxen  hair,  of  sunny  hue, 
Curled  closely  round  his  bonnet  blue. 
Trained  to  the  chase,  his  eagle  eye 
The  ptarmigan  in  snow  could  spy ; 
Each  pass,  by  mountain,  lake,  and  heath, 
He  knew,  through  Lennox  and  Menteith  ; 
Vain  was  the  bound  of  dark-brown  doe 
When  Malcolm  bent  his  sounding  bow. 
And  scarce  that  doe,  though  winged  with 

fear, 
Outstripped  in  speed  the  mountaineer  : 
Right  up  Ben  Lomond  could  he  press, 
And  not  a  sob  his  toil  confess. 
His  form  accorded  with  a  mind 
Lively  and  ardent,  frank  and  kind ; 
A  blither  heart,  till  Ellen  came, 
Did  never  love  nor  sorrow  tame; 
It  danced  as  lightsome  in  his  breast 
As  played  the  feather  on  his  crest. 
Yet  friends,  who  nearest  knew  the  youth, 
His  scorn  of  wrong,  his  zeal  for  truth, 
And  bards,  who  saw  his  features  bold 
When  kindled  by  the  tales  of  old, 
Said,  were  that  youth  to  manhood  grown, 
Not  long  should  Roderick  Dhu's  renown 
Be  foremost  voiced  by  mountain  fame, 
But  quail  to  that  of  Malcolm  Graeme. 

xxvi. 
Now  back  they  wend  their  watery  way, 
And,  *  O  my  sire  ! '  did  Ellen  say, 
'Why  urge  thy  chase  so  far  astray? 


And  why  so  late  returned  ?     And  why  '  — 
The  rest  was  in  her  speaking  eye. 
4  My  child,  the  chase  I  follow  far. 
'T  is  mimicry  of  noble  war ; 
And  with  that  gallant  pastime  reft 
Were  all  of  Douglas  I  have  left. 
I  met  young  Malcolm  as  I  strayed 
Far  eastward,  in  Glenfinlas'  shade  ; 
Nor  strayed  I  safe,  for  all  around 
Hunters  and  horsemen  scoured  the  ground. 
This  youth,  though  still  a  royal  ward,  * 
Risked  life  and  land  to  be  my  guard. 
And  through  the  passes  of  the  wood 
Guided  my  steps,  not  unpursued : 
And  Roderick  shall  his  welcome  make. 
Despite  old  spleen,  for  Douglas'  sake. 
Then  must  he  seek  Strath-Endrick  glen, 
Nor  peril  aught  for  me  again.' 

XXVII. 

Sir  Roderick,  who  to  meet  them  came, 
Reddened  at  sight  of  Malcolm  Graeme, 
Yet,  not  in  action,  word,  or  eye, 
Failed  aught  in  hospitality. 
In  talk  and  sport  they  whiled  away 
1  The  morning  of  that  summer  day ; 
But  at  high  noon  a  courier  light 
Held  secret  parley  with  the  knight, 
Whose  moody  aspect  soon  declared 
That  evil  were  the  news  he  heard. 
Deep  thought  seemed  toiling  in  his  head ; 
Yet  was  the  evening  banquet  made 
Ere  he  assembled  round  the  flame 
His  mother,  Douglas,  and  the  Graeme, 
And  Ellen  too  ;  then  cast  around 
His  eyes,  then  fixed  them  on  the  ground. 
As  studying  phrase  that  might  avail 
Best  to  convey  unpleasant  tale. 
Long  with  his  dagger's  hilt  he  played. 
Then  raised  his  haughty  brow,  and  said  :  — 


THE  LADY   OF   THE   LAKE. 


181 


XXVIII. 

*  Short  be  my  speech  :  —  nor  time  affords, 
Nor  my  plain  temper,  glozing  words. 
Kinsman  and  father,  —  if  such  name 
Douglas  vouchsafe  to  Roderick's  claim ; 
Mine  honored  mother ;  —  Ellen,  —  why, 
My  cousin,  turn  away  thine  eye  ?  — 
And  Graeme,  in  whom  I  hope  to  know 
Full  soon  a  noble  friend  or  foe, 
When  age  shall  give  thee  thy  command, 
And  leading  in  thy  native  land,  — 
List  all !  —  The  King's  vindictive  pride 
Boasts  to  have  tamed  the  Border-side, 
Where  chiefs,  with  hound  and  hawk  who 

came 
To  share  their  monarch's  sylvan  game, 
Themselves  in  bloody  toils  were  snared, 
And  when  the  banquet  they  prepared, 
And  wide  their  loyal  portals  flung, 
O'er  their  own  gateway  struggling  hung. 
Loud  cries  their  blood  from  Meggat's  mead, 
From  Yarrow  braes  and  banks  of  Tweed, 
Where  the  lone  streams  of  Ettrick  glide, 


And  from  the  silver  Teviot's  side ; 

The  dales,  where  martial  clans  did  ride, 

Are  now  one  sheep-walk,  waste  and  wide. 

This  tyrant  of  the  Scottish  throne, 

So  faithless  and  so  ruthless  known, 

Now  hither  comes  ;  his  end  the  same, 

The  same  pretext  of  sylvan  game. 

What  grace  for  Highland  Chiefs,  judge  ye 

By  fate  of  Border  chivalry. 

Yet  more  ;  amid  Glenfinlas'  green, 

Douglas,  thy  stately  form  was  seen. 

This  by  espial  sure  I  know : 

Your  counsel  in  the  streight  I  show.' 

XXIX. 

Ellen  and  Margaret  fearfully 
Sought  comfort  in  each  other's  eye, 
Then  turned  their  ghastly  look,  each  one, 
This  to  her  sire,  that  to  her  son. 
The  hasty  color  went  and  came 
In  the  bold  cheek  of  Malcolm  Graeme, 
But  from  his  glance  it  well  appeared 
'T  was  but  for  Ellen  that  he  feared  ; 


182 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL   WORKS. 


While,  sorrowful,  but  undismayed, 

The  Douglas  thus  his  counsel  said  : 

1  Brave  Roderick,  though  the  tempest  roar, 

It  may  but  thunder  and  pass  o'er ; 

Nor  will  I  here  remain  an  hour, 

Toxlraw  the  lightning  on  thy  bower; 

For  well  thou  know'st,  at  this  gray  head 

The  royal  bolt  were  fiercest  sped. 

For  thee,  who,  at  thy  King's  command, 

Canst  aid  him  with  a  gallant  band, 

Submission,  homage,  humbled  pride; 

Shall  turn  the  Monarch's  wrath  aside. 


Like  cause  of  doubt,  distrust,  and  grief, 
Will  bind  to  us  each  Western  Chief. 
When  the  loud  pipes  my  bridal  tell, 
The  Links  of  Forth  shall  hear  the  knell, 
The  guards  shall  start  in  Stirling's  porch  ; 
And  when  I  light  the  nuptial  torch, 
A  thousand  villages  in  flames 
Shall  scare  the  slumbers  of  King  James  !  — 
Nay,  Ellen,  blench  not  thus  away, 
And,  mother,  cease  these  signs,  I  pray  ; 
I  meant  not  all  my  heat  might  say.  — 
Small  need  of  inroad  or  of  fight, 


Poor  remnants  of  the  Bleeding  Heart, 
Ellen  and  I  will  seek  apart 
The  refuge  of  some  forest  cell, 
There,  like  the  hunted  quarry,  dwell, 
Till  on  the  mountain  and  the  moor 
The  stern  pursuit  be  passed  and  o'er.'  — 

xxx. 

4  No,  by  mine  honor,'  Roderick  said, 

*  So  help  me  Heaven,  and  my  good  blade  ! 

No,  never  !     Blasted  be  yon  Pine, 

My  father's  ancient  crest  and  mine, 

If  from  its  shade  in  danger  part 

The  lineage  of  the  Bleeding  Heart ! 

Hear  my  blunt  speech  :  grant  me  this  maid 

To  wife,  thy  counsel  to  mine  aid ; 

To  Douglas,  leagued  with  Roderick  Dhu, 

Will  friends  and  allies  flock  enow; 


When  the  sage  Douglas  may  unite 
Each  mountain  clan  in  friendly  band, 
To  guard  the  passes  of  their  land, 
Till  the  foiled  King  from  pathless  glen 
Shall  bootless  turn  him  home  again.' 

XXXI. 

There  are  who  have,  at  midnight  hour, 

In  slumber  scaled  a  dizzy  tower, 

And,  on  the  verge  that  beetled  o'er 

The  ocean  tide's  incessant  roar, 

Dreamed  calmly  out  their  dangerous  dream, 

Till  wakened  by  the  morning  beam ; 

When,  dazzled  by  the  eastern  glow, 

Such  startler  cast  his  glance  beiow, 

And  saw  unmeasured  depth  around, 

And  heard  unintermitted  sound, 

And  thought  the  battled  fence  so  frail, 


THE   LADY  OF   THE  LAKE. 


I»3 


It  waved  like  cobweb  in  the  gale  ;  — 
Amid  his  senses'  giddy  wheel, 
Did  he  not  desperate  impulse  feel, 
Headlong  to  plunge  himself  below, 
And  meet  the  worst  his  fears  foreshow  ?  — 
Thus  Ellen,  dizzy  and  astound, 
As  sudden  ruin  yawned  around, 
By  crossing  terrors  wildly  tossed, 
Still  for  the  Douglas  fearing  most, 
Could  scarce  the  desperate  thought  with- 
stand, 
To  buy  his  safety  with  her  hand. 

XXXII. 

Such  purpose  dread  could  Malcolm  spy 
In  Ellen's  quivering  lip  and  eye, 
And  eager  rose  to  speak,  —  but  ere 
His  tongue  could  hurry  forth  his  fear, 
Had  Douglas  marked  the  hectic  strife, 
Where  death  seemed  combating  with  life ; 
For  to  her  cheek,  in  feverish  flood, 
One  instant  rushed  the  throbbing  blood, 
Then  ebbing  back,  with  sudden  sway, 
Left  its  domain  as  wan  as  clay. 
'  Roderick,  enough  !  enough  ! '  he  cried, 


'  My  daughter  cannot  be  thy  bride ; 
Not  that  the  blush  to  wooer  dear, 
Nor  paleness  that  of  maiden  fear. 
It  may  not  be,  —  forgive  her,  Chief, 
Nor  hazard  aught  for  our  relief. 
Against  his  sovereign,  Douglas  ne'er 
Will  level  a  rebellious  spear. 
'T  was  I  that  taught  his  youthful  hand 
To  rein  a  steed  and  wield  a  brand  ; 
I  see  him  yet,  the  princely  boy  ! 
Not  Ellen  more  my  pride  and  joy ; 
I  love  him  still,  despite  my  wrongs 
By  hasty  wrath  and  slanderous  tongues. 
O,  seek  the  grace  you  well  may  find. 
Without  a  cause  to  mine  combined  !  ' 

XXXIII. 

Twice  through  the  hall  the  Chieftain  strode  ; 
The  waving  of  his  tartans  broad, 
And  darkened  brow,  where  wounded  pride 
With  ire  and  disappointment  vied, 
Seemed,  by  the  torch's  gloomy  light, 
Like  the  ill  Demon  of  the  night, 
Stooping  his  pinions'  shadowy  sway 
Upon  the  nighted  pilgrim's  way  : 


1 84 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL    WORKS. 


But,  unrequited  Love  !  thy  dart 
Plunged  deepest  its  envenomed  smart, 
And  Roderick,  with  thine  anguish  stung, 
At  length  the  hand  of  Douglas  wrung, 
While  eyes  that  mocked  at  tears  before 
With  bitter  drops  were  running  o'er. 
The  death-pangs  of  long-cherished  hope 
Scarce  in  that  ample  breast  had  scope, 
But,  struggling  with  his  spirit  proud, 
Convulsive  heaved  its  checkered  shroud, 


With  stalwart  grasp  his  hand  he  laid 
On  Malcolm's  breast  and  belted  plaid : 
1  Back,  beardless  boy  ! '  he  sternly  said, 
1  Back,  minion !  holdst  thou  thus  at  naught 
The  lesson  I  so  lately  taught  ? 
This  roof,  the  Douglas,  and  that  maid, 
Thank  thou  for  punishment  delayed.' 
Eager  as  greyhound  on  his  game, 
Fiercely  with  Roderick  grappled  Graeme. 
'  Perish  my  name,  if  aught  afford 


While  every  sob  —  so  mute  were  all  — 
Was  heard  distinctly  through  the  hall. 
The  son's  despair,  the  mother's  look, 
111  might  the  gentle  Ellen  brook  ; 
She  rose,  and  to  her  side  there  came, 
To  aid  her  parting  steps,  the  Graeme. 


XXXIV. 

Then  Roderick  from  the  Douglas  broke  — 
As  flashes  flame  through  sable  smoke, 
Kindling  its  wreaths,  long,  dark,  and  low, 
To  one  broad  blaze  of  ruddy  glow. 
So  the  deep  anguish  of  despair 
Burst,  in  fierce  jealousy,  to  air. 


Its  Chieftain  safety  save  his  sword  ! ' 

Thus  as  they  strove  their  desperate  hand 

Griped  to  the  dagger  or  the  brand, 

And  death  had  been  —  but  Douglas  rose, 

And  thrust  between  the  struggling  foes 

His  giant  strength  :  —  '  Chieftains,  forego  ! 

I  hold  the  first  who  strikes  my  foe.  — 

Madmen,  forbear  your  frantic  jar  ! 

What !  is  the  Douglas  fallen  so  far, 

His  daughter's  hand  is  deemed  the  spoil 

Of  such  dishonorable  broil  ? ' 

Sullen  and  slowly  they  unclasp, 

As  struck  with  shame,  their  desperate  grasp, 

And  each  upon  his  rival  glared, 

With  foot  advanced  and  blade  half  bared. 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE. 


185 


XXXV. 

Ere  yet  the  brands  aloft  were  flung, 
Margaret  on  Roderick's  mantle  hung, 
And  Malcolm  heard  his  Ellen's  scream, 
As  faltered  through  terrific  dream. 
Then  Roderick  plunged  in  sheath  his  sword, 
And  veiled  his  wrath  in  scornful  word  : 
1  Rest  safe  till  morning  ;  pity  't  were 
Such  cheek  should  feel  the  midnight  air  ! 
Then  mayst  thou  to  James  Stuart  tell, 
Roderick  will  keep  the  lake  and  fell, 
Nor  lackey  with  his  freeborn  clan 
The  pageant  pomp  of  earthly  man. 
More  would  he  of  Clan-Alpine  know, 
Thou  canst  our  strength  and  passes  show. — 
Malise,  what  ho  ! '  —  his  henchman  came  : 
1  Give  our  safe-conduct  to  the  Graeme.' 
Young  Malcolm  answered,  calm  and  bold  : 
1  Fear  nothing  for  thy  favorite  hold; 
The  spot  an  angel  deigned  to  grace 
Is  blessed,  though  robbers  haunt  the  place. 
Thy  churlish  courtesy  for  those 
Reserve,  who  fear  to  be  thy  foes. 
As  safe  to  me  the  mountain  way 
At  midnight  as  in  blaze  of  day, 
Though  with  his  boldest  at  his  back 
Even  Roderick  Dhu  beset  the  track.  — 
Brave  Douglas,  —  lovely  Ellen,  —  nay, 
Naught  here  of  parting  will  I  say. 
Earth  does  not  hold  a  lonesome  glen 
So  secret  but  we  meet  again.  — 
Chieftain  !  we  too  shall  find  an  hour,'  — 
He  said,  and  left  the  svlvan  bower. 


xxxvi. 

Old  Allan  followed  to  the  strand  — 
Such  was  the  Douglas's  command  — 
And  anxious  told,  how,  on  the  morn, 
The  stern  Sir  Roderick  deep  had  sworn, 
The  Fiery  Cross  should  circle  o'er 
Dale,  glen,  and  valley,  down  and  moor. 
Much  were  the  peril  to  the  Graeme 
From  those  who  to  the  signal  came ; 
Far  up  the  lake  't  were  safest  land, 
Himself  would  row  him  to  the  strand. 
He  gave  his  counsel  to  the  wind, 
While  Malcolm  did,  unheeding,  bind, 
Round   dirk  and   pouch   and    broadsword 

rolled, 
His  ample  plaid  in  tightened  fold, 
And  stripped  his  limbs  to  such  array 
As  best  might  suit  the  watery  way,  — 

XXXVII. 

Then  spoke  abrupt :  '  Farewell  to  thee, 
Pattern  of  old  fidelity  ! ' 
The  Minstrel's  hand  he  kindly  pressed,  — 
'  O,  could  I  point  a  place  of  rest ! 
My  sovereign  holds  in  ward  my  land, 
My  uncle  leads  my  vassal  band  ; 
To  tame  his  foes,  his  friends  to  aid, 
Poor  Malcolm  has  but  heart  and  blade. 
Yet,  if  there  be  one  faithful  Graeme 
Who  loves  the  chieftain  of  his  name, 
Not  long  shall  honored  Douglas  dwell 
Like  hunted  stag  in  mountain  cell ; 


1 86 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL   WORKS. 


Nor,  ere  yon  pride-swollen  robber  dare,  — 
I  may  not  give  the  rest  to  air ! 
Tell  Roderick  Dhu  I  owed  him  naught. 
Not  the  poor  service  of  a  boat, 
To  waft  me  to  yon  mountain-side.' 
Then  plunged  he  in  the  flashing  tide. 
Bold  o'er  the  flood  his  head  he  bore, 
And  stoutly  steered  him  from  the  shore: 
And  Allan  strained  his  anxious  eye, 


Far  mid  the  lake  his  form  to  spy, 
Darkening  across  each  puny  wave, 
To  which  the  moon  her  silver  gave. 
Fast  as  the  cormorant  could  skim, 
The  swimmer  plied  each  active  limb 
Then  landing  in  the  moonlight  dell, 
Loud  shouted  of  his  weal  to  tell. 
The  Minstrel  heard  the  far  halloo, 
And  joyful  from  the  shore  withdrew. 


THE  LADY  OF   THE  LAKE. 


1 8/ 


&fje  ILaog  of  tfje  SLafce. 

CANTO    THIRD. 

THE   GATHERING. 


Time  rolls  his  ceaseless  course.    The  race 
of  yore, 
Who  danced  our  infancy  upon  their  knee, 
And  told  our  marvelling  boyhood  legends 
store 
Of  their  strange  ventures  happed  by  land 
or  sea, 
How  are  they  blotted  from  the  things  that 
be  ! 
How  few,  all  weak  and  withered  of  their 
force, 
Wait  on  the  verge  of  dark  eternity, 

Like  stranded  wrecks,  the  tide  returning 
hoarse, 
To  sweep  them  from  our  sight !    Time  rolls 
his  ceaseless  course. 

Yet  live  there  still  who  can  remember  well. 
How,  when  a  mountain  chief  his  bugle 
blew, 


Both  field  and  forest,  dingle,  cliff,  and  dell, 

And  solitary  heath,  the^signal  knew ; 
And  fast  the  faithful  clan  around  him  drew, 
What  time  the  warning  note  was  keenly 
wound, 
What  time  aloft  their  kindred  banner  flew, 
While   clamorous   war-pipes   yelled  the 
gathering  sound, 
And  while  the  Fiery  Cross  glanced,  like  a 
meteor,  round. 


The  Summer  dawn's  reflected  hue 

To  purple  changed  Loch  Katrine  blue ; 

Mildly  and  soft  the  western  breeze 

Just  kissed  the  lake,  just  stirred  the  trees. 

And  the  pleased  lake,  like  maiden  coy, 

Trembled  but  dimpled  not  for  joy  : 

The  mountain-shadows  on  her  breast 

Were  neither  broken  nor  at  rest ; 

In  bright  uncertainty  they  lie, 

Like  future  joys  to  Fancy's  eye. 

The  water-lily  to  the  light 

Her  chalice  reared  of  silver  bright ; 

The  doe  awoke,  and  to  the  lawn, 

Begemmed  with  dew-drops,  led  her  fawn  ; 

The  gray  mist  left  the  mountain-side, 

The  torrent  showed  its  glistening  pride  ; 


1 88 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL   WORKS. 


Invisible  in  necked  sky 

The  lark  sent  down  her  revelry ; 

The  blackbird  and  the  speckled  thrush 

Good-morrow  gave  from  brake  and  bush  ; 

In  answer  cooed  the  cushat  dove      * 

Her  notes  of  peace  and  rest  and  love. 


No  thought  of  peace,  no  thought  of  rest, 
Assuaged  the  storm  in  Roderick's  breast. 
With  sheathed  broadsword  in  his  hand, 
Abrupt  he  paced  the  islet  strand, 
And  eyed  the  rising  sun,  and  laid 
His  hand  on  his  impatient  blade. 
Beneath  a  rock,  his  vassals'  care 
Was  prompt  the  ritual  to  prepare, 
With  deep  and  deathful  meaning  fraught: 
For  such  Antiquity  had  taught 
Was  preface  meet,  ere  yet  abroad 
The  Cross  of  Fire  should  take  its  road. 
The  shrinking  band  stood  oft  aghast 
At  the  impatient  glance  he  cast ;  — 
Such  glance  the  mountain  eagle  threw, 
As,  from  the  cliffs  of  Benvenue, 
She  spread  her  dark  sails  on  the  wind, 
And,  high  in  middle  heaven  reclined, 
With  her  broad  shadow  on  the  lake, 
Silenced  the  warblers  of  the  brake. 


I 


A  heap  of  withered  boughs  was  piled, 
Of  juniper  and  rowan  wild, 
Mingled  with  shivers  from  the  oak, 
Rent  by  the  lightning's  recent  stroke. 
Brian  the  Hermit  by  it  stood, 
Barefooted,  in  his  frock  and  hood. 
His  grizzled  beard  and  matted  hair 
Obscured  a  visage  of  despair ; 
His  naked  arms  and  legs,  seamed  o'er, 
The  scars  of  frantic  penance  bore. 
That  monk,  of  savage  form  and  face, 
The  impending  danger  of  his  race 
Had  drawn  from  deepest  solitude, 
Far  in  Benharrow's  bosom  rude. 
Not  his  the  mien  of  Christian  priest, 
But  Druid's,  from  the  grave  released, 
Whose  hardened  heart  and  eye  might  brook 
On  human  sacrifice  to  look  ; 
And  much,  't  was  said,  of  heathen  lore 
Mixed  in  the  charms  he  muttered  o'er. 
The  hallowed  creed  gave  only  worse 
And  deadlier  emphasis  of  curse. 
No  peasant  sought  that  Hermit's  prayerr 
His  cave  the  pilgrim  shunned  with  care ; 
The  eager  huntsman  knew  his  bound, 
And  in  mid  chase  called  off  his  hound  ; 
Or  if,-  in  lonely  glen  or  strath, 
The  desert-dweller  met  his  path, 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE. 


189 


He  prayed,  and  signed  the  cross  between, 
While  terror  took  devotion's  mien. 


v. 

Of  Brian's  birth  strange  tales  were  told. 
His  mother  watched  a  midnight  fold, 
Built  deep  within  a  dreary  glen, 
Where  scattered  lay  the  bones  of  men 
In  some  forgotten  battle  slain, 
And  bleached  by  drifting  wind  and  rain. 
It  might  have  tamed  a  warrior's  heart 
To  view  such  mockery  of  his  art ! 


Her  maiden  girdle  all  too  short, 
Nor  sought  she,  from  that  fatal  night, 
Or  holy  church  or  blessed  rite, 
But  locked  her  secret  in  her  breast, 
And  died  in  travail,  unconfessed. 


VI. 


Alone,  among  his  young  compeers, 
Was  Brian  from  his  infant  years  ; 
A  moody  and  heart-broken  boy, 
Estranged  from  sympathy  and  joy, 
Bearing  each  taunt  which  careless  tongue 


The  knot-grass  fettered  there  the  hand 
Which  once  could  burst  an  iron  band ; 
Beneath  the  broad  and  ample  bone, 
That  bucklered  heart  to  fear  unknown, 
A  feeble  and  a  timorous  guest, 
The  fieldfare  framed  her  lowly  nest ; 
There  the  slow  blindworm  left  his  slime 
On  the  fleet  limbs  that  mocked  at  time ; 
And  there,  too,  lay  the  leader's  skull, 
Still  wreathed  with  chaplet,  flushed  and  full, 
For  heath-bell  with  her  purple  bloom 
Supplied  the  bonnet  and  the  plume. 
All  night,  in  this  sad  glen,  the  maid 
Sat  shrouded  in  her  mantle's  shade  : 
She  said  no  shepherd  sought  her  side, 
No  hunter's  hand  her  snood  untied, 
Yet  ne'er  again  to  braid  her  hair 
The  virgin  snood  did  Alice  wear ; 
Gone  was  her  maiden  glee  and  sport, 


On  his  mysterious  lineage  flung. 

Whole  nights  he  spent  by  moonlight  pale, 

To  wood  and  stream  his  hap  to  wail, 

Till,  frantic,  he  as  truth  received 

What  of  his  birth  the  crowd  believed, 

And  sought,  in  mist  and  meteor  f;re, 

To  meet  and  know  his  Phantom  Sire ! 

In  vain,  to  soothe  his  wayward  fate, 

The  cloister  oped  her  pitying  gate ; 

In  vain  the  learning  of  the  age 

Unclasped  the  sable-lettered  page ; 

Even  in  its  treasures  he  could  find 

Food  for  the  fever  of  his  mind. 

Eager  he  read  whatever  tells 

Of  magic,  cabala,  and  spells, 

And  every  dark  pursuit  allied 

To  curious  and  presumptuous  pride ; 

Till  with  fired  brain  and  nerves  o'erstrung, 

And  heart  with  mystic  horrors  wrung, 


190 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL   WORKS. 


Desperate  he  sought  Benharrow's  den, 
And  hid  him  from  the  haunts  of  men. 


VII. 

The  desert  gave  him  visions  wild, 
Such  as  might  suit  the  spectre's  child. 
Where  with  black  cliffs  the  torrents  toil, 
He  watched  the  wheeling  eddies  boil, 
Till  from  their  foam  his  dazzled  eyes 
Beheld  the  River  Demon  rise  : 
The  mountain  mist  took  form  and  limb 
Of  noontide  hag  or  goblin  grim  ; 
The  midnight  wind  came  wild  and  dread, 
Swelled  with  the  voices  of  the  dead  ; 
Far  on  the  future  battle-heath 
His  eye  beheld  the  ranks  of  death ; 
Thus  the  lone  Seer,  from  mankind  hurled, 
Shaped  forth  a  disembodied  world. 
One  lingering  sympathy  of  mind 
Still  bound  him  to  the  mortal  kind ; 
The  only  parent  he  could  claim 
Of  ancient  Alpine's  lineage  came. 
Late  had  he  heard,  in  prophet's  dream, 
The  fatal  Ben-Shie's  boding  scream ; 
Sounds,  too,  had  come  in  midnight  blast 
Of  charging  steeds,  careering  fast 
Along  Benharrow's  shingly  side, 
Where  mortal  horseman  ne'er  might  ride  ; 


The  thunderbolt  had  split  the  pine,  — 

All  augured  ill  to  Alpine's  line. 

He  girt  his  loins,  and  came  to  show 

The  signals  of  impending  woe, 

And  now  stood  prompt  to  bless  or  ban, 

As  bade  the  Chieftain  of  his  clan. 


VIII. 

'T  was  all  prepared  ;  —  and  from  the  rock 
A  goat,  the  patriarch  of  the  flock, 
Before  the  kindling  pile  was  laid, 
And  pierced  by  Roderick's  ready  blade. 
Patient  the  sickening  victim  eyed 
The  life-blood  ebb  in  crimson  tide 
Down  his  clogged  beard  and  shaggy  limb, 
Till  darkness  glazed  his  eyeballs  dim. 
The  grisly  priest,  with  murmuring  prayer. 
A  slender  crosslet  framed  with  care, 
A  cubit's  length  in  measure  due ; 
The  shaft  and  limbs  were  rods  of  yew, 
Whose  parents  in  Inch-Cailliach  wave 
Their  shadows  o'er  Clan-Alpine's  grave. 
And,  answering  Lomond's  breezes  deep, 
Soothe  many  a  chieftain's  endless  sleep. 
The  Cross  thus  formed  he  held  on  high. 
With  wasted  hand  and  haggard  eye, 
And  strange  and  mingled  feelings  woke, 
While  his  anathema  he  spoke  :  — 


THE  LADY  OF   THE  LAKE. 


I9I 


IX. 

'  Woe  to  the  clansman  who  shall  view 
This  symbol  of  sepulchral  yew, 
Forgetful  that  its  branches  grew 
Where  weep  the  heavens  their  holiest  dew 

On  Alpine's  dwelling  low! 
Deserter  of  his  Chieftain's  trust, 
He  ne'er  shall  mingle  with  their  dust, 
But,  from  his  sires  and  kindred  thrust, 
Each  clansman's  execration  just 

Shall  doom  him  wrath  and  woe.' 
He  paused  ;  —  the  word  the  vassals  took, 
With  forward  step  and  fiery  look. 
On  high  their  naked  brands  they  shook, 
Their  clattering  targets  wildly  strook  ; 

And  first  in  murmur  low, 
Then,  like  the  billow  in  his  course, 
That  far  to  seaward  finds  his  source, 
And  flings  to  shore  his  mustered  force, 
Burst  with  loud  roar  their  answer  hoarse, 

'  Woe  to  the  traitor,  woe  ! ' 
Ben-an's  gray  scalp  the  accents  knew, 
The  joyous  wolf  from  covert  drew, 
The  exulting  eagle  screamed  afar,  — 
They  knew  the  voice  of  Alpine's  war. 


x. 

The  shout  was  hushed  on  lake  and  fell, 
The  Monk  resumed  his  muttered  spell : 
Dismal  and  low  its  accents  came, 
The  while  he  scathed  the  Cross  with  flame 
And  the  few  words  that  reached  the  air, 
Although  the  holiest  name  was  there, 
Had  more  of  blasphemy  than  prayer. 
But  when  he  shook  above  the  crowd 
Its  kindled  points,  he  spoke  aloud  :  — 
'  Woe  to  the  wretch  who  fails  to  rear 
At  this  dread  sign  the  ready  spear ! 
For,  as  the  flames  this  symbol  sear, 
His  home,  the  refuge  of  his  fear, 

A  kindred  fate  shall  know ; 
Far  o'er  its  roof  the  volumed  flame 
Clan-Alpine's  vengeance  shall  proclaim, 
While  maids  and  matrons  on  his  name 
Shall  call  down  wretchedness  and  shame, 

And  infamy  and  woe.' 
Then  rose  the  cry  of  females,  shrill 
As  goshawk's  whistle  on  the  hill, 
Denouncing  misery  and  ill, 
Mingled  with  childhood's  babbling  trill 

Of  curses  stammered  slow ; 


192 


scorrs  poetical  works. 


Answering  with  imprecation  dread, 
'Sunk  be  bis  home  in  embers  red  ! 
And  cursed  be  the  meanest  shed 
That  e'er  shall  hide  the  houseless  head 

We  doom  to  want  and  woe  ! ' 
A  sharp  and  shrieking  echo  gave, 
Coir-Uriskin,  thy  goblin  cave  ! 
And  the  gray  pass  where  birches  wave 

On  Beala-nam-bo. 


May  ravens  tear  the  careless  eyes. 
Wolves    make    the    coward     heart     their 

prize ! 
As  sinks  that  blood-stream  in  the  earth, 
So  may  his  heart's-blood  drench  his  hearth  ! 
As  dies  in  hissing  gore  the  spark, 
Quench  thou  his  light,  Destruction  dark  ! 
And  be  the  grace  to  him  denied, 
Bought  by  this  sign  to  all  beside  ! ' 


XI. 

Then  deeper  paused  the  priest  anew, 
And  hard  his  laboring  breath  he  drew, 
While,  with  set  teeth  and  clenched  hand, 
And  eyes  that  glowed  like  fiery  brand, 
He  meditated  curse  more  dread, 
And  deadlier,  on  the  clansman's  head 
Who,  summoned  to  his  chieftain's  aid, 
The  signal  saw  and  disobeyed. 
The  crosslet's  points  of  sparkling  wood 
He  quenched  among  the  bubbling  blood, 
And,  as  again  the  sign  he  reared, 
Hollow  and  hoarse  his  voice  was  heard  : 
1  When  flits  this  Cross  from  man  to  man, 
Vich-Alpine's  summons  to  his  clan, 
Burst  be  the  ear  that  fails  to  heed  ! 
Palsied  the  foot  that  shuns  to  speed  ! 


He  ceased ;  no  echo  gave  again 
The  murmur  of  the  deep  Amen. 

XII. 

Then  Roderick  with  impatient  look 

From  Brian's  hand  the  symbol  took : 

'  Speed,  Malise,  speed  ! '  he  said,  and  gave 

The  crosslet  to  his  henchman  brave. 

'  The  muster-place  be  Lanrick  mead  —  s 

Instant  the  time  —  speed,  Malise,  speed  ! ' 

Like  heath-bird,  when  the  hawks  pursue, 

A  barge  across  Loch  Katrine  flew: 

High  stood  the  henchman  on  the  prow  ; 

So  rapidly  the  barge-men  row, 

The  bubbles,  where  they  launched  the  boat, 

Were  all  unbroken  and  afloat, 

Dancing  in  foam  and  ripple  still, 


THE  LADY  OF   THE  LAKE. 


193 


When  it  had  neared  the  mainland  hill ; 
And  from  the  silver  beach's  side 
Still  was  the  prow  three  fathom  wide, 
When  lightly  bounded  to  the  land 
The  messenger  of  blood  and  brand. 


XIII. 

Speed,  Malise,  speed  !  the  dun  deer's  hide 
On  fleeter  foot  was  never  tied. 
Speed,  Malise,  speed !  such  cause  of  haste 
Thine  active  sinews  never  braced. 
Bend  'gainst  the  steepy  hill  thy  breast, 
Burst  down  like  torrent  from  its  crest ; 
With  short  and  springing  footstep  pass 
The  trembling  bog  and  false  morass  ; 
Across  the  brook  like  roebuck  bound, 
And  thread  the  brake  like  questing  hound ; 
The  crag  is  high,  the  scaur  is  deep, 
Yet  shrink  not  from  the  desperate  leap  : 
Parched  are  thy  burning  lips  and  brow, 
Yet  by  the  fountain  pause  not  now  ; 
Herald  of  battle,  fate,  and  fear, 
Stretch  onward  in  thy  fleet  career ! 
The  wounded  hind  thou  track'st  not  now, 
Pursuest     not     maid    through  greenwood 

bough, 
Nor  pliest  thou  now  thy  flying  pace 
With  rivals  in  the  mountain  race ; 
But  danger,  death,  and  warrior  deed 
Are  in  thy  course  —  speed,  Malise,  speed  ! 


XIV. 

Fast  as  the  fatal  symbol  flies, 

In  arms  the  huts  and  hamlets  rise  ; 

From  winding  glen,  from  upland  brown, 

They  poured  each  hardy  tenant  down. 

Nor  slacked  the  messenger  his  pace  : 

He  showed  the  sign,  he  named  the  place, 

And,  pressing  forward  like  the  wind, 

Left  clamor  and  surprise  behind. 

The  fisherman  forsook  the  strand, 

The  swarthy  smith  took  dirk  and  brand ; 

With  changed  cheer,  the  mower  blithe 

Left  in  the  half-cut  swath  his  scythe ; 

The  herds  without  a  keeper  strayed, 

The  plough  was  in  mid-furrow  stayed, 

The  falconer  tossed  his  hawk  away, 

The  hunter  left  the  stag  at  bay  ; 

Prompt  at  the  signal  of  alarms, 

Each  son  of  Alpine  rushed  to  arms  ; 

So  swept  the  tumult  and  affray 

Along  the  margin  of  Achray. 

Alas,  thou  lovely  lake  !  that  e'er 

Thy  banks  should  echo  sounds  of  fear  ! 

The  rocks,  the  bosky  thickets,  sleep 

So  stilly  on  thy  bosom  deep, 

The  lark's  blithe  carol  from  the  cloud 

Seems  for  the  scene  too  gayly  loud. 

xv. 

Speed,  Malise,  speed !  The  lake  is  past, 
Duncraggan's  huts  appear  at  last, 


13 


194 


scorrs  poetical  works. 


And  peep,  like  moss-grown  rocks,  half  seen, 

Half  hidden  in  the  copse  so  green ; 

There  mayst  thou  rest,  thy  labor  done, 

Their  lord  shall  speed  the  signal  on.  — 

As  stoops  the  hawk  upon  his  prey, 

The  henchman  shot  him  down  the  way. 

What  woful  accents  load  the  gale  ? 

The  funeral  yell,  the  female  wail ! 

A  gallant  hunter's  sport  is  o'er, 

A  valiant  warrior  fights  no  more. 

Who,  in  the  battle  or  the  chase, 

At  Roderick's  side  shall  fill  his  place  !  — 


Fleet  foot  on  the  correi, 

Sage  counsel  in  cumber, 
Red  hand  in  the  foray, 

How  sound  is  thy  slumber  ! 
Like  the  dew  on  the  mountain, 

Like  the  foam  on  the  river, 
Like  the  bubble  on  thevfountain, 

Thou  art  gone,  and  forever  ! 

XVII. 

See  Stumah,  who,  the  bier  beside, 
His  master's  corpse  with  wonder  eyed. 


Within  the  hall,  where  torch's  ray 
Supplies  the  excluded  beams  of  day. 
Lies  Duncan  on  his  lowly  bier, 
And  o'er  him  streams  his  widow's  tear. 
His  stripling  son  stands  mournful  by, 
His  youngest  weeps,  but  knows  not  why 
The  village  maids  and  matrons  round 
The  dismal  coronach  resound. 


(JUoronarij. 

He  is  gone  on  the  mountain, 

He  is  lost  to  the  forest, 
Like  a  summer-dried  fountain, 

When  our  need  was  the  sorest. 
The  font,  reappearing, 

From  the  rain-drops  shall  borrow, 
But  to  us  comes  no  cheering, 

To  Duncan  no  morrow  ! 

The  hand  of  the  reaper 

Takes  the  ears  that  are  hoary, 
But  the  voice  of  the  weeper 

Wails  manhood  in  glory. 
The  autumn  winds  rushing 

Waft  the  leaves  that  are  searest, 
But  our  flower  was  in  flushing, 

When  blighting  was  nearest. 


Poor  Stumah  !  whom  his  least  halloo 
Could  send  like  lightning  o'er  the  dewr 
Bristles  his  crest,  and  points  his  ears, 
As  if  some  stranger  step  he  hears. 
'Tis  not  a  mourner's  muffled  tread, 
Who  comes  to  sorrow  o'er  the  dead, 
But  headlong  haste  or  deadly  fear 
Urge  the  precipitate  career. 
All  stand  aghast :  — unheeding  all, 
The  henchman  bursts  into  the  hall ; 
Before  the  dead  man's  bier  he  stood, 
Held  forth  the  Cross  besmeared  with  blood  ; 
'  The  muster-place  is  Lanrick  mead  ; 
Speed  forth  the  signal  !  clansmen,  speed  ! ' 

XVIII. 

Angus,  the  heir  of  Duncan's  line, 
Sprung  forth  and  seized  the  fatal  sign. 
In  haste  the  stripling  to  his  side 
His  father's  dirk  and  broadsword  tied  ; 
But  when  he  saw  his  mother's  eye 
Watch  him  in  speechless  agony, 
Back  to  her  opened  arms  he  flew, 
Pressed  on  her  lips  a  fond  adieu,  — 
'  Alas  ! '  she  sobbed,  —  '  and  yet  be  gone, 
And  speed  thee  forth,  like  Duncan's  son  ! ' 
One  look  he  cast  upon  the  bier, 
Dashed  from  his  eye  the  gathering  tear, 
Breathed  deep  to  clear  his  laboring  breast, 


THE  LADY  OF   THE  LAKE. 


*  95 


And  tossed  aloft  his  bonnet  crest, 
Then,  like  the  high-bred  colt  when,  freed, 
First  he  essays  his  fire  and  speed, 
He  vanished,  and  o'er  moor  and  moss 
Sped  forward  with  the  Fiery  Cross. 
Suspended  was  the  widow's  tear 
While  yet  his  footsteps  she  could  hear ; 
And  when  she  marked  the  henchman's  eye 


Wet  with  unwonted  sympathy, 

•  Kinsman,'  she  said,  '  his  race  is  run 

That  should  have  sped  thine  errand  on  ; 

The  oak  has  fallen,  — the  sapling  bough 

Is  all  Duncraggan's  shelter  now. 

Yet  trust  I  well,  his  duty  done, 

The  orphan's  God  will  guard  my  son.  — 

And  you,  in  many  a  danger  true, 


196 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL    WORKS. 


At  Duncan's  hest  your  blades  that  drew, 
To  arms,  and  guard  that  orphan's  head  ! 
Let  babes  and  women  wail  the  dead.' 
Then  weapon-clang  and  martial  call 
Resounded  through  the  funeral  hall, 
While  from  the  walls  the  attendant  band 


XIX. 


Benledi  saw  the  Cross  of  Fire, 
It  glanced  like  lightning  up  Strath-Ire. 
O'er  dale  and  hill  the  summons  flew, 
Nor  rest  nor  pause  young  Angus  knew ; 
The  tear  that  gathered  in  his  eye 


Snatched   sword  and  targe   with   hurried 

hand ; 
And  short  and  flitting  energy 
Glanced  from  the  mourner's  sunken  eye, 
As  if  the  sounds  to  warrior  dear 
Might  rouse  her  Duncan  from  his  bier.  • 
But  faded  soon  that  borrowed  force  ; 
Grief  claimed   his   right,   and   tears   their 

course. 


He  left  the  mountain-breeze  to  dry ; 
Until,  where  Teith's  young  waters  roll 
Betwixt  him  and  a  wooded  knoll 
That  graced  the  sable  strath  with  green. 
The  chapel  of  Saint  Bride  was  seen. 
Swoln  was  the  stream,  remote  the  bridge. 
But  Angus  paused  not  on  the  edge ; 
Though  the  dark  waves  danced  dizzily, 
Though  reeled  his  sympathetic  eye, 


THE  LADY  OF   THE  LAKE. 


I97 


He  dashed  amid  the  torrent's  roar: 

His  right  hand  high  the  crosslet  bore, 

His  left  the  pole-axe  grasped,  to  guide 

And  stay  his  footing  in  the  tide. 

He   stumbled  twice,  —  the  foam   splashed 

high, 
With  hoarser  swell  the  stream  raced  by ; 
And  had  he  fallen,  —  forever  there, 
Farewell  Duncraggan's  orphan  heir ! 
But  still,  as  if  in  parting  life, 
Firmer  he  grasped  the  Cross  of  strife, 
Until  the  opposing  bank  he  gained, 
And  up  the  chapel  pathway  strained. 


xx. 

A  blithesome  rout  that  morning-tide 
Had  sought  the, chapel  of  Saint  Bride. 
Her  troth  Tombea's  Mary  gave 
To  Norman,  heir  of  Armandave, 
And,  issuing  from  the  Gothic  arch, 
The  bridal  now  resumed  their  march. 
In  rude  but  glad  procession  came 
Bonneted  sire  and  coif-clad  dame  ; 
And  plaided  youth,  with  jest  and  jeer, 
Which  snooded  maiden  would  not  hear ; 
And  children,  that,  unwitting  why, 
Lent  the  gay  shout  their  shrilly  cry  ; 
And  minstrels,  that  in  measures  vied 
Before  the  young  and  bonny  bride, 
Whose  downcast  eye  and  cheek  disclose 
The  tear  and  blush  of  morning  rose. 
With  virgin  step  and  bashful  hand 
She  held  the  kerchief's  snowy  band. 
The  gallant  bridegroom  by  her  side 
Beheld  his  prize  with  victor's  pride, 
And  the  glad  mother  in  her  ear 
Was  closely  whispering  word  of  cheer. 


XXI. 

Who  meets  them  at  the  churchyard  gate  ? 
The  messenger  of  fear  and  fate  ! 
Haste  in  his  hurried  accent  lies, 
And  grief  is  swimming  in  his  eyes. 
All  dripping  from  the  recent  flood, 
Panting  and  travel-soiled  he  stood, 
The  fatal  sign  of  fire  and  sword 
Held  forth,  and  spoke  the  appointed  word 
'The  muster-place  is  Lanrick'mead; 
Speed  forth  the  signal !    Norman,  speed  ! ' 
And  must  he  change  so  soon  the  hand 
Just  linked  to  his  by  holy  band, 
For  the  fell  Cross  of  blood  and  brand  ? 
And  must  the  day  so  blithe  that  rose, 
And  promised  rapture  in  the  close, 
Before  its  setting  hour,  divide 
The  bridegroom  from  the  plighted  bride  ? 
O  fatal  doom  !  —  it  must !  it  must ! 
Clan-Alpine's  cause,  her  Chieftain's  trust, 
Her  summons  dread,  brook  no  delay ; 
Stretch  to  the  race,  — away  !  away  ! 

XXII. 

Yet  slow  he  laid  his  plaid  aside, 
And  lingering  eyed  his  lovely  bride, 
Until  he  saw  the  starting  tear 
Speak  woe  he  might  not  stop  to  cheer ; 
Then,  trusting  not  a  second  look, 
In  haste  he  sped  him  up  the  brook, 
Nor  backward  glanced  till  on  the  heath 
Where  Lubnaig's  lake  supplies  the  Teith.  -  - 
What  in  the  racer's  bosom  stirred  ? 
The  sickening  pang  of  hope  deferred, 
And  memory  with  a  torturing  train 
Of  all  his  morning  visions  vain. 
Mingled  with  love's  impatience,  came 


198 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL    WORKS. 
\ 


The  manly  thirst  for  martial  fame ; 

The  stormy  joy  of  mountaineers 

Ere  yet  they  rush  upon  the  spears  ; 

And  zeal  for  Clan  and  Chieftain  burning. 

And  hope,  from  well-fought  field  returning, 

With  war's  red  honors  on  his  crest, 

To  clasp  his  Mary  to  his  breast. 

Stung  by  such  thoughts,  o'er  bank  and  brae, 

Like  fire  from  flint  he  glanced  away, 

While  high  resolve  and  feeling  strong 

Burst  into  voluntary  song. 

XXIII. 

Sonfl. 

The  heath  this  night  must  be  my  bed, 
The  bracken  curtain  for  my  head, 
My  lullaby  the  warder's  tread, 

Far,  far,  from  love  and  thee,  Mary; 
To-morrow  eve,  more  stilly  laid, 
My  couch  may  be  my  bloody  plaid, 
My  vesper  song  thy  wail,  sweet  maid ! 

It  will  not  waken  me,  Mary  ! 

I  may  not,  dare  not,  fancy  now 

The  grief  that  clouds  thy  lovely  brow, 

I  dare  not  think  upon  thy  vow, 

And  all  it  promised  me,  Mary. 
No  fond  regret  must  Norman  know ; 
When  bursts  Clan-Alpine  on  the  foe, 
His  heart  must  be  like  bended  bow, 

His  foot. like  arrow  free,  Mary. 


A  time  will  come  with  feeling  fraught, 
For,  if  I  fall  in  battle  fought, 
Thy  hapless  lover's  dying  thought 

Shall  be  a  thought  on  thee,  Mary. 
And  if  returned  from  conquered  foes, 
How  blithely  will  the  evening  close, 
How  sweet  the  linnet  sing  repose, 

To  my  young  bride  and  me,  Man- 


Not  faster  o'er  thy  heathery  braes, 
Balquidder,  speeds  the  midnight  blaze, 
Rushing  in  conflagration  strong 
Thy  deep  ravines  and  dells  along, 
Wrapping  thy  cliffs  in  purple  glow, 
And  reddening  the  dark  lakes  below  ; 
Nor  faster  speeds  it,  nor  so  far, 
As  o'er  thy  heaths  the  voice  of  war. 
The  signal  roused  to  martial  coil 
The  sullen  margin  of  Loch  Voil, 
Waked  still  Loch  Doine,  and  to  the  source 
Alarmed,  Balvaig,  thy  swampy  course  ; 
Thence  southward  turned  its  rapid  road 
Adown  Strath-Gartney's  valley  broad, 
Till  rose  in  arms  each  man  might  claim 
A  portion  in  Clan-Alpine's  name, 
From  the  gray  sire,  whose  trembling  hand 
Could  hardly  buckle  on  his  brand, 
To  the  raw  boy,  whose  shaft  and  bow 
Were  yet  scarce  terror  to  the  crow. 
Each  valley,  each  sequestered  glen, 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE. 


199 


Mustered  its  little  horde  of  men, 

That  met  as  torrents  from  the  height 

In  highland  dales  their  streams  unite, 

Still  gathering,  as  they  pour  along, 

A  voice  more  loud,  a  tide  more  strong. 

Till  at  the  rendezvous  they  stood 

By  hundreds  prompt  for  blows  and  blood, 

Each  trained  to  arms  since  life  began, 

Owning  no  tie  but  to  his  clan, 

No  oath  but  by  his  chieftain's  hand, 

No  law  but  Roderick  Dim's  command. 

XXV. 

That  summer  morn  had  Roderick  Dhu 

Surveyed  the  skirts  of  Benvenue, 

And  sent  his  scouts  o'er  hill  and  heath, 

To  view  the  frontiers  of  Menteith. 

All  backward  came  with  news  of  truce ; 

Still  lay  each  martial  Graeme  and  Bruce, 

In  Rednock  courts  no  horsemen  wait, 

No  banner  waved  on  Cardross  gate, 

On  Duchray's  towers  no  beacon  shone, 

Nor  scared  the  herons  from  Loch  Con: 

All  seemed  at  peace.  —  Now  wot  ye  why 

The  Chieftain  with  such  anxious  eye, 

Ere  to  the  muster  he  repair, 

This  western  frontier  scanned  with  care  ?  — 

In  Benvenue's  most  darksome  cleft, 

A  fair  though  cruel  pledge  was  left ; 

For  Douglas,  to  his  promise  true, 

That  morning  from  the  isle  withdrew, 

And  in  a  deep  sequestered  dell 


Had  sought  a  low  and  lonely  cell. 
By  many  a  bard  in  Celtic  tongue 
Has  Coir-nan-Uriskin  been  sung  ; 
A  softer  name  the  Saxons  gave, 
And  called  the  grot  the  Goblin  Cave. 


XXVI. 

It  was  a  wild  and  strange  retreat, 
As  e'er  was  trod  by  outlaw's  feet. 
The  dell,  upon  the  mountain's  crest, 
Yawned  like  a  gash  on  warrior's  breast ; 
Its  trench  had  stayed  full  many  a  rock, 
Hurled  by  primeval  earthquake  shock 
From  Benvenue's  gray  summit  wild, 
And  here,  in  random  ruin  piled, 
They  frowned  incumbent  o'er  the  spot, 
And  formed  the  rugged  sylvan  grot. 
The  oak  and  birch  with  mingled  shade 
At  noontide  there  a  twilight  made, 
Unless  when  short  and  sudden  shone 
Some  straggling  beam  on  cliff  or  stone, 
With  such  a  glimpse  as  prophet's  eye 
Gains  on  thy  depth,  Futurity. 
No  murmur  waked  the  solemn  still. 
Save  tinkling  of  a  fountain  rill ; 
But  when  the  wind  chafed  with  the  lake. 
A  sullen  sound  would  upward  break, 
With  dashing  hollow  voice,  that  spoke 
The  incessant  war  of  wave  and  rock. 
Suspended  cliffs  with  hideous  sway 
Seemed  nodding  o'er  the  cavern  gray. 
From  such  a  den  the  wolf  had  sprung, 


200 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL    WORKS. 


In  such  the  wild-cat  leaves  her  young  : 
Yet  Douglas  and  his  daughter  fair 
Sought  for  a  space  their  safety  there. 
Gray  Superstition's  whisper  dread 
Debarred  the  spot  to  vulgar  tread  ; 
For  there,  she  said,  did  fays  resort, 
And  satyrs  hold  their  sylvan  court, 
By  moonlight  tread  their  mystic  maze, 
And  blast  the  rash  beholder's  gaze. 

XXVII. 

Now  eve,  with  western  shadows  long, 
Floated  on  Katrine  bright  and  strong, 


For  strength  and  stature,  from  the  clan 
Each  warrior  was  a  chosen  man, 
As  even  afar  might  well  be  seen, 
By  their  proud  step  and  martial  mien. 
Their  feathers  dance,  their  tartans  float, 
Their  targets  gleam,  as  by  the  boat 
A  wild  and  warlike  group  they  stand, 
That  well  became  such  mountain-strand. 

XXVIII. 

Their  Chief  with  step  reluctant  still 
Was  lingering  on  the  craggy  hill, 
Hard  by  where  turned  apart  the  road 


When  Roderick  with  a  chosen  few 

Repassed  the  heights  of  Benvenue. 

Above  the  Goblin  Cave  they  go, 

Through  the  wild  pass  of  Beal-nam-bo ; 

The  prompt  retainers  speed  before, 

To  launch  the  shallop  from  the  shore, 

For  'cross  Loch  Katrine  lies  his  way 

To  view  the  passes  of  Achray, 

And  place  his  clansmen  in  array. 

Yet  lags  the  Chief  in  musing  mind, 

Unwonted  sight,  his  men  behind. 

A  single  page,  to  bear  his  sword, 

Alone  attended  on  his  lord  ; 

The  rest  their  way  through  thickets  break, 

And  soon  await  him  by  the  lake. 

It  was  a  fair  and  gallant  sight, 

To  view  them  from  the  neighboring  height, 

By  the  low-levelled  sunbeam's  light ! 


To  Douglas's  obscure  abode. 
If  was  but  with  that  dawning  morn 
That  Roderick  Dhu  had  proudly  sworn 
To  drown  his  love  in  war's  wild  roar, 
Nor  think  of  Ellen  Douglas  more  ; 
But  he  who  stems  a  stream  with  sand, 
And  fetters  flame  with  flaxen  band, 
Has  yet  a  harder  task  to  prove,  — 
By  firm  resolve  to  conquer  love  ! 
Eve  finds  the  Chief,  like  restless  ghost, 
Still  hovering  near  his  treasure  lost ; 
For  though  his  haughty  heart  deny 
A  parting  meeting  to  his  eye, 
Still  fondly  strains  his  anxious  ear 
The  accents  of  her  voice  to  hear, 
And  inly  did  he  curse  the  breeze 
That  waked  to  sound  the  rustling  trees. 
But  hark  !  what  mingles  in  the  strain  ? 


THE  LADY  OF   THE  LAKE. 


20I 


It  is  the  harp  of  Allan-bane, 

That  wakes  its  measure  slow  and  high, 

Attuned  to  sacred  minstrelsy. 

What  melting  voice  attends  the  strings  ? 

'T  is  Ellen,  or  an  angel,  sings. 

XXIX. 

pjgtmt  to  tfje  Utrgm. 

Ave  Maria  !  maiden  mild  ! 

Listen  to  a  maiden's  prayer  ! 
Thou  canst  hear  though  from  the  wild, 


Thou  canst  save  amid  despair. 
Safe  may  we  sleep  beneath  thy  care, 

Though  banished,  outcast,  and  reviled  — 
Maiden  !  hear  a  maiden's  prayer ; 

Mother,  hear  a  suppliant  child ! 

Ave  Maria! 

Ave  Maria  /  undefiled ! 

The  flinty  couch  we  now  must  share 
Shall  seem  with  down  of  eider  piled, 

If  thy  protection  hover  there. 
The  murky  cavern's  heavy  air 


202 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL   WORKS. 


Shall  breathe  of  balm  if  thou  hast  smiled: 
Then,  Maiden  !  hear  a.  maiden's  prayer, 
Mother,  list  a  suppliant  child  ! 

Ave  Maria: 

Ave  Maria  .'  stainless  styled  ! 

Foul  demons  of  the  earth  and  air, 
From  this  their  wonted  haunt  exiled, 

Shall  flee  before  thy  presence  fair. 
We  bow  us  to  our  lot  of  care, 

Beneath  thy  guidance  reconciled  : 
Hear  for  a  maid  a  maiden's  prayer, 

And  for  a  father  hear  a  child ! 

Ave  Maria! 


They  landed  in  that  silvery  bay, 
And  eastward  held  their  hasty  way, 
Till,  with  the  latest  beams  of  light. 
The  band  arrived  on  Lanrick  height. 
Where  mustered  in  the  vale  below 
Clan-Alpine's  men  in  martial  show. 


XXXI. 

A  various  scene  the  clansmen  made : 
Some  sat,  some  stood,  some  slowly  strayed 
But  most,  with  mantles  folded  round. 
Were  couched  to  rest  upon  the  ground, 
Scarce  to  be  known  by  curious  eye 


Died  on  the  harp  the  closing  hymn,  — 
Unmoved  in  attitude  and  limb, 
As  listening  still,  Clan-Alpine's  lord 
Stood  leaning  on  his  heavy  sword, 
Until  the  page  with  humble  sign 
Twice  pointed  to  the  sun's  decline. 
Then  while  his  plaid  he  round  him  cast, 
*  It  is  the  last  time  —  't  is  the  last,' 
He  muttered  thrice,  —  'the  last  time  e'er 
That  angel-voice  shall  Roderick  hear  ! ' 
It  was  a  goading  thought,, —  his  stride 
Hied  hastier  down  the  mountain-side  ; 
Sullen  he  flung  him  in  the  boat, 
An  instant  'cross  the  lake  it  shot. 


From  the  deep  heather  where  they  lie, 
So  well  was  matched  the  tartan  screen 
With  heath-bell  dark  and  brackens  green ; 
Unless  where,  here  and  there,  a  blade 
Or  lance's  point  a  glimmer  made, 
Like    glow-worm    twinkling    through    the 

shade. 
But  when,  advancing  through  the  gloom, 
They  saw  the  Chieftain's  eagle  plume. 
Their  shout  of  welcome,  shrill  and  wide. 
Shook  the  steep  mountain's  steady  side. 
Thrice  it  arose,  and  lake  and  fell 
Three  times  returned  the  martial  yell : 
It  died  upon  Bochastle's  plain, 
And  Silence  claimed  her  evening  reign. 


THE   LADY  OF   THE   LAKE. 


203 


&f)e  3LatJg  of  tjje  ILafee. 

CANTO    FOURTH. 

THE   PROPHECY. 


1  The  rose  is  fairest  when  't  is  budding  new, 
And  hope  is  brightest  when  it  dawns  from 
fears  ; 
The  rose  is  sweetest  washed  with  morning 
dew, 
And  love  is  loveliest  when  embalmed  in 
tears. 

0  wilding  rose,  whom  fancy  thus  endears, 
I  bid  your  blossoms  in  my  bonnet  wave, 

Emblem  of  hope  and  love  through  future 

years  ! ' 
Thus  spoke  young  Norman,  heir  of  Ar- 

mandave, 
What  time  the  sun  arose  on  Vennachar's 

broad  wave. 

11. 

Such  fond  conceit,  half  said,  half  sung, 
Love  prompted  to  the  bridegroom's  tongue. 
All  while  he  stripped  the  wild-rose  spray, 
His  axe  and  bow  beside  him  lay, 
For  on  a  pass  'twixt  lake  and  wood 
A  wakeful  sentinel  he  stood. 
Hark  !  —  on  the  rock  a  footstep  rung, 
And  instant  to  his  arms  he  sprung. 

1  Stand,  or  thou  diest !  —  What,  Malise  ?  — 

soon 
Art  thou  returned  from  Braes  of  Doune. 
By  thy  keen  step  and  glance  I  know, 
Thou  bring'st  us  tidings  of  the  foe.'  — 
For  while  the  Fiery  Cross  hied  on. 
On  distant  scout  had  Malise  gone.  — 
'Where  sleeps  the  Chief? 'the  henchman 

said. 
'  Apart,  in  yonder  misty  glade  ; 
To  his  lone  couch  I  '11  be  your  guide.' — 
Then  called  a  slumberer  by  his  side, 
And  stirred  him  with  his  slackened  bow,  — 
'  Up,  up,  Glentarkin  !  rouse  thee,  ho ! 
We  seek  the  Chieftain  ;  on  the  track 
Keep  eagle  watch  till  I  come  back.' 


Together  up  the  pass  they  sped : 

'  What  of  the  foeman  ? '  Norman  said.  — 

'Varying  reports  from  near  and  far: 

This  certain,  —  that  a  band  of  war 

Has  for  two  days  been  ready  boune. 

At  prompt,  command  to  march  from  Doune ; 

King  James  the  while,  with  princely  powers, 

Holds  revelry  in  Stirling  towers. 

Soon  will  this  dark  and  gathering  cloud 

Speak  on  our  glens  in  thunder  loud. 

Inured  to  bide  such  bitter  bout, 

The  warrior's  plaid  may  bear  it  out; 

But,  Norman,  how  wilt  thou  provide 

A  shelter  for  thy  bonny  bride  ? '  — 

'  What !  know  ye  not  that  Roderick's  care 

To  the  lone  isle  hath  caused  repair 

Each  maid  and  matron  of  the  clan, 

And  every  child  and  aged  man 

Unfit  for  arms  ;  and  given  his  charge, 

Nor  skiff  nor  shallop,  boat  nor  barge, 

Upon  these  lakes  shall  float  at  large, 

But  all  beside  the  islet  moor, 

That  such  dear  pledge  may  rest  secure  ? '  — 


''Tis  well  advised,  —  the  Chieftain's  plan 

Bespeaks  the  father  of  his  clan. 

But  wherefore  sleeps  Sir  Roderick  Dim 

Apart  from  all  his  followers  true  ?  ' 

'  It  is  because  last  evening-tide 

Brian  an  augury  hath  tried, 

Of  that  dread  kind  which  must  not  be 

Unless  in  dread  extremity, 

The  Taghairm  called  ;  by  which,  afar, 

Our  sires  foresaw  the  events  of  war. 

Duncraggan's  milk-white  bull  they  slew.'— 


'  Ah  !  well  the  gallant  brute  I  knew  ! 
The  choicest  of  the  prey  we  had 
When  swept  our  merrymen  Gallangad. 
His  hide  was  snow,  his  horns  were  dark, 
His  red  eye  glowed  like  fiery  spark  ; 
So  fierce,  so  tameless,  and  so  fleet, 
Sore  did  he  cumber  our  retreat. 
And  kept  our  stoutest  kerns  in  awe, 
Even  at  the  pass  of  Beal  'maha. 


204 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL   WORKS. 


But  steep  and  flinty  was  the  road, 
And  sharp  the  hurrying  pikeman's  goad, 
And  when  we  came  to  Dennan's  Row 
A  child  might  scathless  stroke  his  brow. 


v. 


NORMAN. 

'  That  bull  was  slain  ;  his  reeking  hide 
They  stretched  the  cataract  beside, 
Whose  waters  their  wild  tumult  toss 
Adown  the  black  and  craggy  boss 


Or  raven  on  the  blasted  oak, 

That,  watching  while  the  deer  is  broke, 

His  morsel  claims  with  sullen  croak  ? ' 


*  Peace !  peace  !  to  other  than  to  me 
■Thy  words  were  evil  augury; 
But  still  I  hold  Sir  Roderick's  blade 
Clan-Alpine's  omen  and  her  aid, 
Not    aught  that,  gleaned  from  heaven 

hell, 
Yon  fiend-begotten  Monk  can  tell. 


Of  that  huge  cliff  whose  ample  verge 
Tradition  calls  the  Hero's  Targe. 
Couched  on  a  shelf  beneath  its  brink, 
Close  where  the  thundering  torrents  sink, 
Rocking  beneath  their  headlong  sway, 
And  drizzled  by  the  ceaseless  spray, 
Midst  groan  of  rock  and  roar  of  stream, 
The  wizard  waits  prophetic  dream. 
Nor  distant  rests  the  Chief  ;  — but  hush  ! 
See,  gliding  slow  through  mist  and  bush, 
The  hermit  gains  yon  rock,  and  stands 
To  gaze  upon  our  slumbering  bands. 
Seems  he  not,  Malise,  like  a  ghost, 
That  hovers  o'er  a  slaughtered  host  ? 


The  Chieftain  joins  him,  see  —  and  now- 
Together  they  descend  the  brow.' 


And,  as  they  came,  with  Alpine's  Lord 
The  Hermit  Monk  held  solemn  word  :  — 
1  Roderick  !  it  is  a  fearful  strife, 
For  man  endowed  with  mortal  life, 
Whose  shroud  of  sentient  clay  can  still 
Feel  feverish  pang  and  fainting  chill, 
Whose  eye  can  stare  in  stony  trance, 
Whose  hair  can  rouse  like  warrior's  lance, 
'T  is  hard  for  such  to  view,  unfurled, 
The  curtain  of  the  future  world. 


THE  LADY  OF   THE  LAKE. 


205 


Yet,  witness  every  quaking  limb, 

My  sunken  pulse,  mine  eyeballs  dim, 

My  soul  with  harrowing  anguish  torn, 

This  for  my  Chieftain  have  I  borne  !  — 

The  shapes  that  sought  my  fearful  couch 

A  human  tongue  may  ne'er  avouch  ; 

No  mortal  man  —  save  he,  who,  bred 

Between  the  living  and  the  dead, 

Is  gifted  beyond  nature's  law  — 

Had  e'er  survived  to  say  he  saw. 

At  length  the  fateful  answer  came 

In  characters  of  living  flame  ! 

Not  spoke  in  word,  nor  blazed  in  scroll, 

But  borne  and  branded  on  my  soul :  — 

Which  spills  the  foremost  foeman's 

LIFE, 

That  party  conquers  in  the  strife.' 


'  Thanks,  Brian,  for  thy  zeal  and  care  ! 
Good  is  thine  augury,  and  fair. 
Clan-Alpine  ne'er  in  battle  stood 
But  first  our  broadswords  tasted  blood. 
A  surer  victim  still  I  know, 
Self-offered  to  the  auspicious  blow  : 
A  spy  has  sought  my  land  this  morn,  — 


No  eve  shall  witness  his  return ! 

My  followers  guard  each  pass's  mouth, 

To  east,  to  westward,  and  to  south  ; 

Red  Murdoch,  bribed  to  be  his  guide, 

Has  charge  to  lead  his  steps  aside, 

Till  in  deep  path  or  dingle  brown 

He  light  on  those  shall  bring  him  down.  — 

But  see,  who  comes  his  news  to  show ! 

Malise  !  what  tidings  of  the  foe  ?  ' 

VIII. 

'  At  Doune,  o'er  many  a  spear  and  glaive 
Two  Barons  proud  their  banners  wave. 
I  saw  the  Moray's  silver  star, 
And  marked  the  sable  pale  of  Mar.' 
1  By  Alpine's  soul,  high  tidings  those  ! 
I  love  to  hear  of  worthy  foes. 
When  move  they  on  ?  '    '  To-morrow's  noon 
Will  see  them  here  for  battle  boune.' 
'  Then  shall  it  see  a  meeting  stern  ! 
But,  for  the  place,  —  say,  couldst  thou  learn 
Nought  of  the  friendly  clans  of  Earn  ? 
Strengthened  by  them,  we  well  might  bide 
The  battle  on  Benledi's  side. 
Thou  couldst   not  ?  —  well !    Clan- Alpine's 
men 


206 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL   WORKS. 


Shall  man  the  Trosachs'  shaggy  glen  ; 
Within  Loch  Katrine's  gorge  we  '11  fight, 
All  in  our  maids'  and  matrons'  sight, 
Each  for  his  hearth  and  household  fire, 
Father  for  child,  and  son  for  sire, 
Lover  for  maid  beloved  !  —  But  why  — 
Is  it  the  breeze  affects  mine  eye  ? 
Or  dost  thou  come,  ill-omened  tear  ! 
A  messenger  of  doubt  or  fear? 
No  !  sooner  may  the  Saxon  lance 
Unfix  Benledi  from  his  stance, 
Than  doubt  or  terror  can  pierce  through 


Some  refuge  from  impending  war. 
When  e'en  Clan-Alpine's  rugged  swarm 
Are  cowed  by  the  approaching  storm. 
I  saw  their  boats  with  many  a  light, 
Floating  the  livelong  yesternight, 
Shifting  like  flashes  darted  forth 
By  the  red  streamers  of  the  north ; 
I  marked  at  morn  how  close  they  ride, 
Thick  moored  by  the  lone  islet's  side. 
Like  wild  ducks  couching  in  the  fen 
When  stoops  the  hawk  upon  the  glen. 
Since  this  rude  race  dare  not  abide 


The  unyielding  heart  of  Roderick  Dhu  ! 
'T  is  stubborn  as  his  trusty  targe. 
Each  to  his  post !  — all  know  their  charge.' 
The  pibroch  sounds,  the  bands  advance, 
The  broadswords  gleam,  the  banners  dance, 
Obedient  to  the  Chieftain's  glance.  — 
I  turn  me  from  the  martial  roar, 
And  seek  Coir-Uriskin  once  more. 

IX. 

Where  is  the  Douglas  ?  —  he  is  gone  ; 
And  Ellen  sits  on  the  gray  stone 
Fast  by  the  cave,  and  makes  her  moan, 
While  vainly  Allan's  words  of  cheer 
Are  poured  on  her  unheeding  ear. 
1  He  will  return  —  dear  lady,  trust !  — 
With  joy  return  ;  —  he  will  —  he  must. 
Well  was  it  time  to  seek  afar 


The  peril  on  the  mainland  side, 
Shall  not  thy  noble  father's  care 
Some  safe  retreat  for  thee  prepare  ? 


x. 


1  No,  Allan,  no  !     Pretext  so  kind 
My  wakeful  terrors  could  not  blind. 
When  in  such  tender  tone,  yet  grave, 
Douglas  a  parting  blessing  gave. 
The  tear  that  glistened  in  his  eye 
Drowned  not  his  purpose  fixedand  high. 
My  soul,  though  feminine  and  weak, 
Can  image  his  ;  e'en  as  the  lake, 
Itself  disturbed  by  slightest  stroke, 
Reflects  the  in  vulnerable  rock. 
He  hears  report  of  battle  rife, 
He  deems  himself  the  cause  of  strife. 


THE  LADY  OF   THE  LAKE. 


207 


I  saw  him  redden  when  the  theme 
Turned,  Allan,  on  thine  idle  dream 
Of  Malcolm  Graeme  in  fetters  bound, 
Which  I,  thou  saidst,  about  him  wound. 
Think'st  thou  he  trowed  thine  omen  aught  ? 
O  no  !  'twas  apprehensive  thought 
For  the  kind  youth,  —  for  Roderick  too  — 
Let  me  be  just —  that  friend  so  true  ; 
In  danger  both,  and  in  our  cause  ! 
Minstrel,  the  Douglas  dare  not  pause. 
Why  else  that  solemn  warning  given, 
"  If  not  on  earth,  we  meet  in  heaven  !  " 
Why  else,  to  Cambus-kenneth's  fane, 
If  eve  return  him  not  again, 
Am  I  to  hie  and  make  me  known  ? 
Alas  !  he  goes  to  Scotland's  throne, 
Buys  his  friends'  safety  with  his  own ; 
He  goes  to  do  —  what  I  had  done, 
Had  Douglas'  daughter  been  his  son  ! ' 


XI. 

'  Nay,  lovely  Ellen  !  —  dearest,  nay  ! 
If  aught  should  his  return  delay, 
He  only  named  yon  holy  fane 
As  fitting  place  to  meet  again. 
Be  sure  he  's  safe  ;  and  for  the  Graeme,  — 
Heaven's  blessing  on  his  gallant  name  !  — 
My  visioned  sight  may  yet  prove  true, 
Nor  bode  of  ill  to  him  or  you. 


When  did  my  gifted  dream  beguile  ? 
Think  of  the  stranger  at  the  isle, 
And  think  upon  the  harpings  slow 
That  presaged  this  approaching  woe  ! 
Sooth  was  my  prophecy  of  fear ; 
Believe  it  when  it  augurs  cheer. 
Would  we  had  left  this  dismal  spot ! 
Ill  luck  still  haunts  a  fairy  grot. 
Of  such  a  wondrous  tale  I  know  — 
Dear  lady,  change  that  look  of  woe, 
My  harp  was  wont  thy  grief  to  cheer.' 


•  Well,  be  it  as  thou  wilt ;  I  hear, 
But  cannot  stop  the  bursting  tear.' 
The  Minstrel  tried  his  simple  art, 
But  distant  far  was  Ellen's  heart. 


XII. 

BailaU. 

ALICE    BRAND. 

Merry  it  is  in  the  good  greenwood, 
When  the  mavis  and  merle  are  singing, 

When  the  deer  sweeps  by,  and  the  hounds 
are  in  cry, 
And  the  hunter's  horn  is  ringing. 


208 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL    WORKS. 


'  O  Alice  Brand,  my  native  land 

Is  lost  for  love  of  you ; 
And  we  must  hold  by  wood  and  wold, 

As  outlaws  wont  to  do. 

'  O  Alice,  't  was  all  for  thy  locks  so  bright. 

And  't  was  all  for  thine  eyes  so  blue, 
That  on  the  night  of  our  luckless  flight 

Thy  brother  bold  I  slew. 

'  Now  must  I  teach  to  hew  the  beech 
The  hand  that  held  the  glaive, 

For  leaves  to  spread  our  lowly  bed, 
And  stakes  to  fence  our  cave. 

1  And  for  vest  of  pall,  thy  fingers  small, 

That  wont  on  harp  to  stray, 
A  cloak  must  shear  from  the  slaughtered 
deer, 

To  keep  the  cold  away.' 

'  O  Richard  !  if  my  brother  died, 

'T  was  but  a  fatal  chance ; 
For  darkling  was  the  battle  tried, 

And  fortune  sped  the  lance. 

'  If  pall  and  vair  no  more  I  wear, 

Nor  thou  the  crimson  sheen, 
As  warm,  we  '11  say,  is  the  russet  gray, 

As  gay  the  forest-green. 

'  And,  Richard,  if  our  lot  be  hard, 

And  lost  thy  native  land, 
Still  Alice  has  her  own  Richard. 

And  he  his  Alice  Brand.' 


XIII. 

23alla&  Continue):. 

'T  is  merry,  'tis  merry,  in  good  greenwood  ; 

So  blithe  Lady  Alice  is  singing ; 
On  the  beech's  pride,  and  oak's  brown  side, 

Lord  Richard's  axe  is  ringing. 

Up  spoke  the  moody  Elfin  King, 

Who  woned  within  the  hill, — 
Like  wind  in  the  porch  of  a  ruined  church, 

His  voice  was  ghostly  shrill. 


'  Why  sounds  yon  stroke  on  beech  and  oak. 

Our  moonlight  circle's  screen  ? 
Or  who  comes  here  to  chase  the  deer, 

Beloved  of  our  Elfin  Queen  ? 
Or  who  may  dare  on  wold  to  wear 


The  fairies' 


fatal  green  ? 


'  Up,  Urgan,  up  !  to  yon  mortal  hie. 

For  thou  wert  christened  man  : 
For  cross  or  sign  thou  wilt  not  fly, 

For  muttered  word  or  ban. 

'  Lay  on  him  the  curse  of  the  withered  heart. 

The  curse  of  the  sleepless  eye  ; 
Till  he  wish  and  pray  that  his  life  would 
part, 

Nor  yet  find  ieave  to  die.' 

XIV. 

SSallao  Continued 
'T  is  merry,  *t  is  merry,  in  good  greenwood, 
Though  the  birds  have  stilled  their  sing- 
ing ; 
The  evening  blaze  doth  Alice  raise, 
And  Richard  is  fagots  bringing. 

Up  Urgan  starts,  that  hideous  dwarf, 

Before  Lord  Richard  stands, 
And,  as  he  crossed  and  blessed  himself. 
'  I  fear  not  sign,'  quoth  the  grisly  elf, 

'  That  is  made  with  bloody  hands.' 

But  out  then  spoke  she,  Alice  Brand, 

That  woman  void  of  fear,  — 
'  And  if  there  's  blood  upon  his  hand, 

"T  is  but  the  blood  of  deer.* 

*  Now  loud  thou  liest,  thou  bold  of  mood ! 

It  cleaves  unto  his  hand, 
The  stain  of  thine  own  kindly  blood, 

The  blood  of  Ethert  Brand.' 

Then  forward  stepped  she,  Alice  Brand, 

And  made  the  holy  sign,  — 
'  And  if  there  's  blood  on  Richard's  hand, 

A  spotless  hand  is  mine. 

'  And  I  conjure  thee,  demon  elf, 

By  Him  whom  demons  fear, 
To  show  us  whence  thou  art  thyself, 

And  what  thine  errand  here  ?  ' 

XV. 

JSallao  Continue*. 

'  T  is  merry,  't  is  merry,  in  Fairy-land, 

When  fairy  birds  are  singing, 
When  the  court  doth  ride  by  their  monarch's 
side, 

With  bit  and  bridle  ringing : 


THE  LADY  OF   THE  LAKE. 


209 


'  And  gayly  shines  the  Fairy-land  — 

But  all  is  glistening  show, 
Like  the  idle  gleam  that  December's  beam 

Can  dart  on  ice  and  snow. 

*  And  fading,  like  that  varied  gleam, 

Is  our  inconstant  shape, 
Who  now  like  knight  and  lady  seem, 
And  now  like  dwarf  and  ape. 

•  It  was  between  the  night  and  day, 

When  the  Fairy  King  has  power, 
That  I  sunk  down  in  a  sinful  fray, 
And'twixt  life  and  death  was  snatched  away 

To  the  joyless  Elfin  bower. 

1  But  wist  I  of  a  woman  bold, 
Who  thrice  my  brow  durst  sign, 

I  might  regain  my  mortal  mould, 
As  fair  a  form  as  thine.' 

She  crossed  him  once  —  she  crossed  him 
twice  — 

That  lady  was  so  brave ; 
The  fouler  grew  his  goblin  hue, 

The  darker  grew  the  cave. 

She  crossed  him  thrice,  that  lady  bold ; 
He  rose  beneath  her  hand 


The  fairest  knight  on  Scottish  mould, 
Her  brother,  Ethert  Brand  ! 

Merry  it  is  in  good  greenwood, 

When  the  mavis  and  merle  are  singing. 
But  merrier  were  they  in  Dunfermline  gray. 

When  all  the  bells  were  ringing. 


XVI. 

Just  as  the  minstrel  sounds  were  stayed,, 

A  stranger  climbed  the  steepy  glade ; 

His  martial  step,  his  stately  mien, 

His  hunting-suit  of  Lincoln  green, 

His  eagle  glance,  remembrance  claims  — 

'T  is  Snowdoun's  Knight,  't  is  James  Fitz- 

James. 
Ellen  beheld  as  in  a  dream, 
Then,  starting,  scarce  suppressed  a  scream : 
'  O  stranger !  in  such  hour  of  fear 
What  evil  hap  has  brought  thee  here  ? ' 
'  An  evil  hap  how  can  it  be 
That  bids  me  look  again  on  thee  ? 
By  promise  bound,  my  former  guide 
Met  me  betimes  this  morning-tide, 
And  marshalled  over  bank  and  bourne 
The  happy  path  of  my  return.' 
'  The  happy  path  !  —  what !  said  he  naught 
Of  war,  of  battle  to  be  fought, 


2IO 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL    WORKS. 


Of  guarded  pass  ? '    '  No,  by  my  faith  ! 
Nor  saw  I  aught  could  augur  scathe.' 
4  O  haste  thee,  Allan,  to  the  kern : 
Yonder  his  tartans  I  discern  ; 
Learn  thou  his  purpose,  and  conjure 
That  he  will  guide  the  stranger  sure !  - 
What  prompted  thee,  unhappy  man  ? 
The  meanest  serf  in  Roderick's  clan 
Had  not  been  bribed,  by  love  or  fear, 
Unknown  to  him  to  guide  thee  here.' 


'  Sweet  Ellen,  dear  my  life  must  be, 

Since  it  is  worthy  care  from  thee  : 

Yet  life  I  hold  but  idle  breath 

When  love  or  honor  's  weighed  with  death. 

Then  let  me  profit  by  my  chance, 

And  speak  my  purpose  bold  at  once. 

I  come  to  bear  thee  from  a  wild 

Where  ne'er  before  such  blossom  smiled, 

By  this  soft  hand  to  lead  thee  far 

From  frantic  scenes  of  feud  and  war. 

Near  Bochastle  my  horses  wait ; 

They  bear  us  soon  to  Stirling  gate. 

I  '11  place  thee  in  a  lovely  bower, 

I  '11  guard  thee  like  a  tender  flower  —  ' 

4  O  hush,  Sir  Knight !  't  were  female  art, 

To  say  I  do  not  read  thy  heart ; 

Too  much,  before,  my  selfish  ear 

Was  idly  soothed  my  praise  to  hear. 

That  fatal  bait  hath  'lured  thee  back, 

In  deathful  hour,  o'er  dangerous  track ; 

And  how,  O  how,  can  I  atone 

The  wreck  my  vanity  brought  on  !  — 

One  way  remains  —  I  '11  tell  him  all  — 

Yes  !  struggling  bosom,  forth  it  shall ! 

Thou,  whose  light  folly  bears  the  blame, 

Buy  thine  own  pardon  with  thy  shame  ! 

But  first  —  my  father  is  a  man 

Outlawed  and  exiled,  under  ban  ; 

The  price  of  blood  is  on  his  head, 

With  me  't  were  infamy  to  wed. 

Still  wouldst  thou  speak?  —  then  hear  the 

truth  ! 
Fitz-James,  there  is  a  noble  youth 
If  yet  he  is  !  —  exposed  for  me 
And  mine  to  dread  extremity  — 
Thou  hast  the  secret  of  my  heart; 
Forgive,  be  generous,  and  depart ! ' 

xvm. 
Fitz-James  knew  every  wily  train 
A  lady's  fickle  heart  to  gain, 
But  here  he  knew  and  felt  them  vain. 
There  shot  no  glance  from  Ellen's  eye, 
To  give  her  steadfast  speech  the  lie  ; 
In  maiden  confidence  she  stood, 
Though  mantled  in  her  cheek  the  blood, 
And  told  her  love  with  such  a  sigh 
Of  deep  and  hopeless  agony, 


As  death  had  sealed  her  Malcolm's  doom 

And  she  sat  sorrowing  on  his  tomb. 

Hope  vanished  from  Fitz-James's  eye, 

But  not  with  hope  fled  sympathy. 

He  proffered  to  attend  her  side, 

As  brother  would  a  sister  guide. 

4  O  little  know'st  thou  Roderick's  heart ! 

Safer  for  both  we  go  apart. 

O  haste  thee,  and  from  Allan  learn 

If  thou  mayst  trust  yon  wily  kern.' 

With  hand  upon  his  forehead  laid, 

The  conflict  of  his  mind  to  shade, 

A  parting  step  or  two  he  made  ; 

Then,  as  some  thought   had  crossed  his 

brain, 
He  paused,  and  turned,  and  came  again. 

XIX. 

4  Hear,  lady,  yet  a  parting  word  !  — 
It  chanced  in  fight  that  my  poor  sword 
Preserved  the  life  of  Scotland's  lord. 
This  ring  the  grateful  Monarch  gave, 
And  bade,  when  I  had  boon  to  crave, 
To  bring  it  back,  and  boldly  claim 
The  recompense  that  I  would  name. 
Ellen,  I  am  no  courtly  lord, 
But  one  who  lives  by  lance  and  sword, 
Whose  castle  is  his  helm  and  shield, 
His  lordship  the  embattled  field. 
What  from  a  prince  can  I  demand, 
Who  neither  reck  of  state  nor  land  ? 
Ellen,  thy  hand  —  the  ring  is  thine; 
Each  guard  and  usher  knows  the  sign. 
Seek  thou  the  King  without  delay ; 
This  signet  shall  secure  thy  way : 
And  claim  thy  suit,  whate'er  it  be. 
As  ransom  of  his  pledge  to  me.' 
He  placed  the  golden  circlet  on, 
Paused  —  kissed  her  hand  —  and  then  was 

gone. 
The  aged  Minstrel  stood  aghast, 
So  hastily  Fitz-James  shot  past. 
He  joined  his  guide,  and  wending  down 
The  ridges  of  the  mountain  brown, 
Across  the  stream  they  took  their  way 
That  joins  Loch  Katrine  to  Achray. 

xx. 

All  in  the  Trosachs'  glen  was  still, 
Noontide  was  sleeping  on  the  hill : 
Sudden  his  guide  whooped  loud  and  high  — 
4  Murdoch  !  was  that  a  signal  cry  ? '  — 
He  stammered  forth,  4 1  shout  to  scare 
Yon  raven  from  his  dainty  fare.' 
He  looked  —  he  knew  the  raven's  prey, 
His  own  brave  steed  :  4  Ah  !  gallant  gray  ! 
For  thee  —  for  me,  perchance  —  t'  were  well 
We  ne'er  had  seen  the  Trosachs'  dell.  — 
Murdoch,  move  first  —  but  silently  ; 
Whistle  or  whoop,  and  thou  shalt  die  !  ' 


THE  LADY  OF   THE  LAKE. 


211 


Jealous  and  sullen  on  they  fared, 
Each  silent,  each  upon  his  guard. 

XXI. 

Now  wound  the  path  its  dizzy  ledge 
Around  a  precipice's  edge, 
When  lo  !  a  wasted  female  form, 
Blighted  by  wrath  of  sun  and  storm, 
In  tattered  weeds  and  wild  array, 
Stood  on  a  cliff  beside  the  way, 
And  glancing  round  her  restless  eye, 
Upon  the  wood,  the  rock,  the  sky, 
Seemed  naught  to  mark,  yet  all  to  spy. 
Her  brow  was  wreathed  with  gaudy  broom  ; 
With  gesture  wild  she  waved  a  plume 
Of  feathers,  which  the  eagles  fling 
To  crag  and  cliff  from  dusky  wing; 
Such  spoils  her  desperate  step  had  sought, 


Where  scarce  was  footing  for  the  goat. 
The  tartan  plaid  she  first  descried, 
And  shrieked  till  all  the  rocks  replied ; 
As  loud  she  laughed  when  near  they  drewr 
For  then  the  Lowland  garb  she  knew  ; 
And  then  her  hands  she  wildly  wrung, 
And  then  she  wept,  and  then  she  sung  — 
She  sung !  —  the  voice,  in  better  time, 
Perchance  to  harp  or  lute  might  chime  ; 
And  now,  though  strained  and  roughened, 

still 
Rung  wildly  sweet  to  dale  and  hill. 

XXII. 

Song. 

They  bid  me  sleep,  they  bid  me  pray, 
They  say  my  brain  is  warped  and  wrung  — 


212 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL   WORKS. 


I  cannot  sleep  on  Highland  brae, 

I  cannot  pray  in  Highland  tongue. 
But  were  I  now  where  Allan  glides, 
Or  heard  my  native  Devan's  tides, 
So  sweetly  would  I  rest,  and  pray 
That  Heaven  would  close  my  wintry  day  ! 

'T  was  thus  my  hair  they  bade  me  braid. 

They  made  me  to  the  church  repair: 
It  was  my  bridal  morn  they  said, 

And  my  true  love  would  meet  me  there. 
But  woe  betide  the  cruel  guile 
That  drowned  in  blood  the  morning  smile  ! 
And  woe  betide  the  fairy  dream  ! 
I  only  waked  to  sob  and  scream. 


I  '11  pitch  thee  from  the  cliff  as  far 
As  ever  peasant  pitched  a  bar  ! ' 
'Thanks,  champion,  thanks!'  the  Maniac 

cried, 
And  pressed  her  to  Fitz-James's  side. 
'  See  the  gray  pennons  I  prepare, 
To  seek  my  true  love  through  the  air ! 
I  will  not  lend  that  savage  groom, 
To  break  his  fall,  one  downy  plume  ! 
No!  —  deep  amid  disjointed  stones, 
The  wolves  shall  batten  on  his  bones, 
And  then  shall  his  detested  plaid, 
By  bush  and  brier  in  mid-air  stayed. 
Wave  forth  a  banner  fair  and  free, 
Meet  signal  for  their  revelry.' 


XXIII. 

'Who  is  this  maid  ?  what  means  her  lay  ? 

She  hovers  o'er  the  hollow  way, 

And  flutters  wide  her  mantle  gray, 

As  the  lone  heron  spreads  his  wing, 

By  twilight,  o'er  a  haunted  spring.' 

'  'T  is  Blanche  of  Devan,'  Murdoch  said, 

1  A  crazed  and  captive  Lowland  maid, 

Ta'en  on  the  morn  she  was  a  bride, 

When  Roderick  forayed  Devan-side. 

The  gay  bridegroom  resistance  made, 

And  felt  our  Chief's  unconquered  blade. 

I  marvel  she  is  now  at  large, 

But     oft     she     'scapes     from     Maudlin's 

charge.  — 
Hence,   brain-sick  fool ! '  —  He  raised  his 

bow  :  — 
1  Now,  if  thou  strik'st  her  but  one  blow, 


XXIV. 

1  Hush  thee,  poor  maiden,  and  be  still ! ' 
'  O  !  thou  look'st  kindly,  and  I  will. 
Mine  eve  has  dried  and  wasted  been, 
But  still  it  loves  the  Lincoln  green  ; 
And,  though  mine  ear  is  all  unstrung. 
Still,  still  it  loves  the  Lowland  tongue. 

'  For  O  my  sweet  William  was  forester  true, 
He  stole  poor  Blanche's  heart  away ! 

His  coat  it  was  all  of  the  greenwood  hue, 
And  so  blithely  he  trilled  the  Lowland  lay ! 

'  It  was  not  that  I  meant  to  tell  .  .  . 
But  thou  art  wise  and  guessest  well.' 
Then,  in  a  low  and  broken  tone,  , 

And  hurried  note,  the  song  went  on. 
Still  on  the  Clansman  fearfully 


THE  LADY  OF   THE  LAKE. 


213 


She  fixed  her  apprehensive  eye, 

Then  turned  it  on  the  Knight,  and  then 

Her  look  glanced  wildly  o'er  the  glen. 


xxv. 

4  The  toils  are  pitched,  and  the  stakes  are 
set,  — 
Ever  sing  merrily,  merrily ; 
The  bows  they  bend,  and  the  knives  they 
whet, 
Hunters  live  so  cheerily. 

•  It  was  a  stag,  a  stag  of  ten, 

Bearing  its  branches  sturdily ; 
He  came  stately  down  the  glen, — 

Ever  sing  hardily,  hardily. 

'  It  was  there  he  met  with  a  wounded  doe. 

She  was  bleeding  deathfully ; 
She  warned  him  of  the  toils  below. 

O,  so  faithfully,  faithfully  ! 

1  He  had  an  eye,  and  he  could  heed,  — 

Ever  sing  warily,  warily  ; 
He  had  a  foot,  and  he  could  speed,  — 

Hunters  watch  so  narrowly.' 


Fitz-James's  mind  was  passion-tossed, 
When  Ellen's  hints  and  fears  were  lost ; 
But  Murdoch's  shout  suspicion  wrought, 
And  Blanche's  song  conviction  brought. 
Not  like  a  stag  that  spies  the  snare. 
But  lion  of  the  hunt  aware, 
He  waved  at  once  his  blade  on  high, 
4  Disclose  thy  treachery,  or  die  ! ' 
Forth  at  full  speed  the  Clansman  flew. 
But  in  his  race  his  bow  he  drew. 
The  shaft  just  grazed  Fitz-James's  crest, 
And  thrilled  in  Blanche's  faded  breast.  — 
Murdoch  of  Alpine  !  prove  thy  speed, 
For  ne'er  had  Alpine's  son  such  need ; 
With  heart  of  fire,  and  foot  of  wind, 
The  fierce  avenger  is  behind  ! 
Fate  judges  of  the  rapid  strife  — 
The  forfeit  death  — the  prize  is  life  ; 
Thy  kindred  ambush  lies  before, 
Close  couched  upon  the  heathery  moor; 
Them  couldst  thou  reach  !  — it  may  not  be  — 
Thine  ambushed  kin  thou  ne'er  shalt  see, 
The  fiery  Saxon  gains  on  thee  !  — 
Resistless  speeds  the  deadly  thrust, 


214 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL   WORKS. 


As  lightning  strikes  the  pine  to  dust ; 
With  foot  and  hand  Fitz-James  must  strain 
Ere  he  can  win  his  blade  again. 
Bent  o'er  the  fallen  with  falcon  eye, 
He  grimly  smiled  to  see  him  die, 
Then  slower  wended  back  his  way, 
Where  the  poor  maiden  bleeding  lay. 

XXVII. 

She  sat  beneath  the  birchen  tree, 
Her  elbow  resting  on  her  knee  : 
She  had  withdrawn  the  fatal  shaft, 
And  gazed  on  it,  and  feebly  laughed  ; 
Her  wreath  of  broom  and  feathers  gray, 
Daggled  with  blood,  beside  her  lay. 
The  Knight  to  stanch  the  life-stream  tried, — 
4  Stranger,  it  is  in  vain  ! '  she  cried. 
1  This  hour  of  death  has  given  me  more 
Of  reason's  power  than  years  before  ; 
For,  as  these  ebbing  veins  decay, 
My  frenzied  visions  fade  away. 
A  helpless  injured  wretch  I  die, 
And  something  tells  me  in  thine  eye 
That  thou  wert  mine  avenger  born. 
Seest  thou  this  tress  ?  —  O,  still  I  've  worn 
This  little  tress  of  yellow  hair, 
Through  danger,  frenzy,  and  despair  ! 
It  once  was  bright  and  clear  as  thine, 
But  blood  and  tears  have  dimmed  its  shine. 
I  will  not  tell  thee  when  't  was  shred, 
Nor  from  what  guiltless  victim's  head,  — 
My  brain  would  turn  !  —  but  it  shall  wave 
Like  plumage  on  thy  helmet  brave, 
Till  sun  and  wind  shall  bleach  the  stain, 
And  thou  wilt  bring  it  me  again. 
I  waver  still.  —  O  God  !  more  bright 
Let  reason  beam  her  parting  light !  — 
O,  by  thy  knighthood's  honored  sign, 
And  for  thy  life  preserved  by  mine, 


When  thou  shalt  see  a  darksome  man, 
Who  boasts  him  Chief  of  Alpine's  Clan, 
With  tartans  broad  and  shadowy  plume. 
And  hand  of  blood,  and  brow  of  gloom, 
Be  thy  heart  bold,  thy  weapon  strong, 
And    wreak     poor    Blanche     of    Devan's 

wrong !  — 
They  watch  for  thee  by  pass  and  fell  .  .  . 
Avoid  the  path  .  .  .  O  God !  .  .  .  farewell!7 

XXVIII. 

A  kindly  heart  had  brave  Fitz-James  ; 
Fast  poured  his  eyes  at  pity's  claims  ; 
And  now,  with  mingled  grief  and  ire, 
He  saw  the  murdered  maid  expire. 
'  God,  in  my  need,  be  my  relief, 
As  I  wreak  this  on  yonder  Chief  ! ' 
A  lock  from  Blanche's  tresses  fair 
i    He  blended  with  her  bridegroom's  hair  ; 
!   The  mingled  braid  in  blood  he  dyed, 
;   And  placed  it  on  his  bonnet-side  : 
|    '  By  Him  whose  word  is  truth,  I  swear, 
!   No  other  favor  will  I  wear, 
!   Till  this  sad  token  I  imbrue 
!    In  the  best  blood  of  Roderick  Dhu  !  — 
|    But  hark  !  what  means  yon  faint  halloo  ? 
I   The  chase  is  up,  —  but  they  shall  know, 
i   The  stag  at  bay  's  a  dangerous  foe.' 
I   Barred  from  the  known  but  guarded  way, 
I   Through  copse  and  cliffs  Fitz-James  must 
stray, 
And  oft  must  change  his  desperate  track, 
By  stream  and  precipice  turned  back. 
Heartless,  fatigued,  and  faint,  at  length, 
From  lack  of  food  and  loss  of  strength. 
He  couched  him  in  a  thicket  hoar, 
And  thought  his  toils  and  perils  o'er  :  — 
'  Of  all  my  rash  adventures  past, 
This  frantic  feat  must  prove  the  last ! 


THE  LADY  OF   THE  LAKE. 


215 


Who  e'er  so  mad  but  might  have  guessed 
That  all  this  Highland  hornet's  nest 
Would  muster  up  in  swarms  so  soon 
As  e'er  they  heard  of  bands  at  Doune  ?  — 
Like    bloodhounds    now   they   search    me 

out,  — 
Hark,  to  the  whistle  and  the  shout !  — 
If  farther  through  the  wilds  I  go, 
I  only  fall  upon  the  foe  : 
I  '11  couch  me  here  till  evening  gray, 
Then  darkling  try  my  dangerous  way.' 

XXIX. 

The  shades  of  eve  come  slowly  down, 
The  woods  are  wrapt  in  deeper  brown, 
The  owl  awakens  from  her  dell, 
The  fox  is  heard  upon  the  fell ; 
Enough  remains  of  glimmering  light 
To  guide  the  wanderer's  steps  aright, 
Yet  not  enough  from  far  to  show 
His  figure  to  the  watchful  foe. 
With  cautious  step  and  ear  awake, 
He  climbs  the  crag  and  threads  the  brake  ; 
And  not  the  summer  solstice  there 
Tempered  the  midnight  mountain  air, 
But  every  breeze  that  swept  the  wold 
Benumbed  his  drenched  limbs  with  cold. 
In  dread,  in  danger,  and  alone, 


Famished  and  chilled,  through   ways  un- 
known, 
Tangled  and  steep,  he  journeyed  on ; 
Till,  as  a  rock's  huge  point  he  turned, 
A  watch-fire  close  before  him  burned. 

XXX. 

Beside  its  embers  red  and  clear, 
Basked  in  his  plaid  a  mountaineer ; 
And  up  he  sprung  with  sword  in  hand,  — 
'  Thy  name  and  purpose  !  Saxon,  stand  ! ' 
'  A  stranger.'     '  What  dost  thou  require  ?  ' 
'  Rest  and  a  guide,  and  food  and  fire. 
My  life's  beset,  my  path  is  lost, 
The  gale  has  chilled  my  limbs  with  frost.' 
'  Art  thou  a  friend  to  Roderick  ? '     *  No.' 

I  Thou  dar'st  not  call  thyself  a  foe  ? ' 

I I  dare  !  to  him  and  all  the  band 

He  brings  to  aid  his  murderous  hand.' 

'  Bold  words  !  —  but,  though  the  beast  of 

game 
The  privilege  of  chase  may  claim, 
Though  space  and  law  the  stag  we  lend,    « 
Ere  hound  we  slip  or  bow  we  bend, 
Who  ever  recked,  where,  how,  or  when, 
The  prowling  fox  was  trapped  or  slain  ? 
Thus  treacherous  scouts, — yet  sure  they 

lie, 


2l6 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL    WORKS. 


Who,  say  thou  cam'st  a  secret  spy  ! '  — 
4  They  do,  by  heaven  !  —  come    Roderick 

Dhu, 
And  of  his  clan  the  boldest  two, 
And  let  me  but  till  morning  rest, 
I  write  the  falsehood  on  their  crest.' 
1  If  by  the  blaze  I  mark  aright, 
Thou  bear'st  the  belt  and  spur  of  Knight.' 
1  Then  by  these  tokens  mayst  thou  know 
Each  proud  oppressor's  mortal  foe.' 
1  Enough,  enough  ;  sit  down  and  share 
A  soldier's  couch,  a  soldier's  fare.' 


He  gave  him  of  his  Highland  cheer, 
The  hardened  flesh  of  mountain  deer ; 
Dry  fuel  on  the  fire  he  laid, 
And  bade  the  Saxon  share  his  plaid. 
He  tended  him  like  welcome  guest, 
Then  thus  his  further  speech  addressed 
'  Stranger,  I  am  to  Roderick  Dhu 
A  clansman  born,  a  kinsman  true  : 
Each  word  against  his  honor  spoke 
Demands  of  me  avenging  stroke  ; 
Yet  more,  —  upon  thy  fate,  't  is  said, 
A  mighty  augury  is  laid. 


It  rests  with  me  to  wind  my  horn,  — 
Thou  art  with  numbers  overborne  ; 
It  rests  with  me,  here,  brand  to  brand, 
Worn  as  thou  art,  to  bid  thee  stand  : 
But,  not  for  clan,  nor  kindred's  cause. 
Will  I  depart  from  honor's  laws ; 
To  assail  a  wearied  man  were  shame. 
And  stranger  is  a  holy  name  ; 
Guidance  ^nd  rest,  and  food  and  fire, 
In  vain  he  never  must  require. 
Then  rest  thee  here  till  dawn  of  day  ; 
Myself  will  guide  thee  on  the  way, 
O'er  stock  and  stone,  through  watch  and 

ward, 
Till  past  Clan-Alpine's  outmost  guard, 
As  far  as  Coilantogle's  ford  ; 
From  thence  thy  warrant  is  thy  sword.' 
'  I  take  thy  courtesy,  by  heaven, 
As  freely  as  't  is  nobly  given  ! ' 
'Well,  rest  thee;  for  the  bittern's  cry 
Sings  us  the  lake's  wild  lullaby.' 
With  that  he  shook  the  gathered  heath, 
And  spread  his  plaid  upon  the  wreath ; 
And  the  brave  ioemen,  side  by  side, 
Lay  peaceful  down  like  brothers  tried, 
And  slept  until  the  dawning  beam 
Purpled  the  mountain  and  the  stream. 


THE  LADY  OF   THE  LAKE. 


217 


&fje  ILaog  of  tfje  ILafa. 


CANTO     FIFTH. 


THE   COMBAT. 


Fair  as  the  earliest  beam  of  eastern  light, 
When  first,  by  the  bewildered  pilgrim 
spied, 
It  smiles  upon  the  dreary  brow  of  night, 
And   silvers  o'er  the   torrent's  foaming 
tide, 
And  lights  the  fearful  path  on  mountain- 
side, — 
Fair  as  that  beam,  although  the  fairest 
far, 
Giving  to  horror  grace,  to  danger  pride, 
Shine  martial  Faith,  and  Courtesy's  bright 
star, 
Through  all  the  wreckful  storms  that  cloud 
the  brow  of  War. 

11. 
That  early  beam,  so  fair  and  sheen, 
Was  twinkling  through  the  hazel  screen, 
When,  rousing  at  its  glimmer  red, 
The  warriors  left  their  lowly  bed, 
Looked  out  upon  the  dappled  sky, 
Muttered  their  soldier  matins  by, 
And  then  awaked  their  fire,  to  steal, 
As  short  and  rude,  their  soldier  meal. 
That  o'er,  the  Gael  around  him  threw 
His  graceful  plaid  of  varied  hue, 
And,  true  to  promise,  led  the  way, 
By  thicket  green  and  mountain  gray. 
A  wildering  path  !  —  they  winded  now 
Along  the  precipice's  brow, 


Commanding  the  rich  scenes  beneath, 
The  windings  of  the  Forth  and  Teith, 
And  all  the  vales  between  that  lie, 
Till  Stirling's  turrets  melt  in  sky ; 
Then,  sunk  in  copse,  their  farthest  glance 
Gained  not  the  length  of  horseman's  lance. 
'T  was  oft  so  steep,  the  foot  was  fain 
Assistance  from  the  hand  to  gain  ; 
So  tangled  oft  that,  bursting  through, 
Each  hawthorn  shed  her  showers  of  dew,  — ■ 
That  diamond  dew,  so  pure  and  clear, 
It  rivals  all  but  Beauty's  tear ! 

in. 

At  length  they  came  where,  stern  and  steep, 

The  hill  sinks  down  upon  the  deep. 

Here  Vennachar  in  silver  flows, 

There,  ridge  on  ridge,  Benledi  rose  ; 

Ever  the  hollow  path  twined  on, 

Beneath  steep  bank  and  threatening  stone ; 

A  hundred  men  might  hold  the  post 

With  hardihood  against  a  host. 

The  rugged  mountain's  scanty  cloak 

Was  dwarfish  shrubs  of  birch  and  oak,        ^ 

With  shingles  bare,  and  cliffs  between, 

And  patches  bright  of  bracken  green, 

And  heather  black,  that  waved  so  high, 

It  held  the  copse  in  rivalry. 

But  where  the  lake  slept  deep  and  still, 

Dank  osiers  fringed  the  swamp  and  hill ; 

And  oft  both  path  and  hill  were  torn, 

Where  wintry  torrent  down  had  borne, 

And  heaped  upon  the  cumbered  land 

Its  wreck  of  gravel,  rocks,  and  sand. 

So  toilsome  was  the  road  to  trace, 

The  guide,  abating  of  his  pace, 

Led  slowly  through  the  pass's  jaws, 

And  asked  Fitz-James  by  what  strange  cause 


218 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL    WORKS. 


He  sought  these  wilds,  traversed  by  few. 
Without  a  pass  from  Roderick  Dhu. 


«  Brave  Gael,  my  pass,  in  danger  tried. 
Hangs  in  my  belt  and  by  my  side ; 
Yet,  sooth  to  tell,'  the  Saxon  said, 
1 1  dreamt  not  now  to  claim  its  aid. 
When  here,  but  three  days  since,  I  came, 
Bewildered  in  pursuit  of  game, 
All  seemed  as  peaceful  and  as  still 
As  the  mist  slumbering  on  yon  hill ; 
Thy  dangerous  Chief  was  then  afar, 
Nor  soon  expected  back  from  war. 
Thus  said,  at  least,  my  mountain-guide, 
Though  deep  perchance  the  villain  lied.' 
*  Yet  why  a  second  venture  try  ? ' 
'  A  warrior  thou,  and  ask  me  why  !  — 
Moves  our  free  course  by  such  fixed  cause 
As  gives  the  poor  mechanic  laws  ? 
Enough,  I  sought  to  drive  away 
The  lazy  hours  of  peaceful  day : 
Slight  cause  will  then  suffice  to  guide 
A  Knight's  free  footsteps  far  and  wide,  — 
A  falcon  flown,  a  greyhound  strayed, 
The  merry  glance  of  mountain  maid  : 
Or,  if  a  path  be  dangerous  known, 
The  danger's  self  is  lure  alone.' 


'  Thy  secret  keep,  I  urge  thee  not ;  — 
Yet,  ere  again  ye  sought  this  spot. 
Say,  heard  ye  naught  of  Lowland  war. 
Against  Clan-Alpine,  raised  by  Mar  ? ' 
'  No,  by  my  word  ;  —  of  bands  prepared 
To  guard  King  James's  sports  I  heard ; 
Nor  doubt  I  aught,  but,  when  they  hear 
This  muster  of  the  mountaineer, 
Their  pennons  will  abroad  be  flung, 
Which  else  in  Doune  had  peaceful  hung.' 
1  Free  be  they  flung  !  for  we  were  loath 
Their  silken  folds  should  feast  the  moth. 
Free  be  they  flung!  — as  free  shall  wave 
Clan-Alpine's  pine  in  banner  brave. 
But,  stranger,  peaceful  since  you  came, 
Bewildered  in  the  mountain-game, 
Whence    the    bold    boast    by   which    you 

show 
Vich-Alpine's  vowed  and  mortal  foe  ?  ' 
'  Warrior,  but  yester-morn  I  knew 
Naught  of  thy  Chieftain,  Roderick  Dhu, 
Save  as  an  outlawed  desperate  man, 
The  chief  of  a  rebellious  clan, 
Who,  in  the  Regent's  court  and  sight, 
With  ruffian  dagger  stabbed  a  knight ; 
Yet  ihis  alone  might  from  his  part 
Sever  each  true  and  loyal  heart.' 


THE  LADY  OF   THE  LAKE. 


2I9 


VI. 

Wrathful  at  such  arraignment  foul, 
Dark  lowered  the  clansman's  sable  scowl. 
A  space  he  paused,  then  sternly  said, 
4  And  heardst  thou  why  he  drew  his  blade  ? 
Heardst  thou  that  shameful  word  and  blow 
Brought  Roderick's  vengeance  on  his  foe  ? 
What  recked  the  Chieftain  if  he  stood 
On  Highland  heath  or  Holy- Rood  ? 
He  rights  such  wrong  where  it  is  given, 
If  it  were  in  the  court  of  heaven.' 


These  fertile  plains,  that  softened  vale, 
Were  once  the  birthright  of  the  Gael ; 
The  stranger  came  with  iron  hand, 
And  from  our  fathers  reft  the  land. 
Where  dwell  we  now  ?     See,  rudely  swell 
Crag  over  crag,  and  fell  o'er  fell. 
Ask  we  this  savage  hill  we  tread 
For  fattened  steer  or  household  bread, 
Ask  we  for  flocks  these  shingles  dry, 
And  well  the  mountain  might  reply,  — 
"  To  you,  as  to  your  sires  of  yore, 


*  Still  was  it  outrage  ;  —  yet,  't  is  true, 
Not  then  claimed  sovereignty  his  due  ; 
While  Albany  with  feeble  hand 
Held  borrowed  truncheon  of  command, 
The  young  King,  mewed  in  Stirling  tower, 
Was  stranger  to  respect  and  power. 
But  then,  thy  Chieftain's  robber  life  !  — 
Winning  mean  prey  by  causeless  strife, 
Wrenching  from  ruined  Lowland  swain 
His  herds  and  harvest  reared  in  vain,  — 
Methinks  a  soul  like  thine  should  scorn 
The  spoils  from  such  foul  foray  borne.' 

VII. 

The  Gael  beheld  him  grim  the  while. 
And  answered  with  disdainful  smile  : 
'  Saxon,  from  yonder  mountain  high, 
I  marked  thee  send  delighted  eye 
Far  to  the  south  and  east,  where  lay, 
Extended  in  succession  gay, 
Deep  waving  fields  and  pastures  green, 
With  gentle  slopes  and  groves  between  :  — 


Belong  the  target  and  claymore  ! 

I  give  you  shelter  in  my  breast, 

Your  own  good  blades 'must  win  the  rest." 

Pent  in  this  fortress  of  the  North, 

Think'st  thou  we  will  not  sally  forth, 

To  spoil  the  spoiler  as  we  may, 

And  from  the  robber  rend  the  prey? 

Ay,  by  my  soul !  —  While  on  yon  plain 

Tne  Saxon  rears  one  shock  of  grain, 

While  of  ten  thousand  herds  there  strays 

But  one  along  yon  river's  maze,  — 

The  Gael,  of  plain  and  river  heir, 

Shall  with  strong  hand  redeem  his  share. 

Where  live  the  mountain  Chiefs  who  hold 

That  plundering  Lowland  field  and  fold 

Is  aught  but  retribution  true? 

Seek  other  cause  'gainst  Roderick  Dhu.' 

VIII. 

Answered  Fitz-James  :  '  And,  if  I  sought, 
Think'st  thou  no  other  could  be  brought  ? 
What  deem  ye  of  my  path  waylaid  ? 


220 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


My  life  given  o'er  to  ambuscade  ?' 

'  As  of  a  meed  to  rashness  due : 

Hadst  thou  sent  warning  fair  and  true,  — 

I  seek  my  hound  or  falcon  strayed, 

I  seek,  good  faith,  a  Highland  maid, — 

Free  hadst  thou  been  to  come  and  go ; 

But  secret  path  marks  secret  foe. 

Nor  yet  for  this,  even  as  a  spy, 

Hadst  thou,  unheard,  been  doomed  to  die, 

Save  to  fulfil  an  augury.' 

'  Well,  let  it  pass  ;  nor  will  I  now 

Fresh  cause  of  enmity  avow, 

To  chafe  thy  mood  and  cloud  thy  brow. 

Enough,  I  am  by  promise  tied 

To  match  me  with  this  man  of  pride  : 

Twice  have  I  sought  Clan-Alpine's  glen 

In  peace  :  but  when  I  come  again, 

I  come  with  banner,  brand,  and  bow, 

As  leader  seeks  his  mortal  foe. 

For  love-lorn  swain  in  lady's  bower 

Ne'er  panted  for  the  appointed  hour, 

As  I,  until  before  me  stand 

This  rebel  Chieftain  and  his  band  !  ' 


IX. 

'  Have  then  thy  wish  ! '  —  He  whistled  shrill, 
And  he  was  answered  from  the  hill ; 
Wild  as  the  scream  of  the  curlew, 
From  crag  to  crag  the  signal  flew. 
Instant,  through  copse  and  heath,  arose 
Bonnets  and  spears  and  bended  bows : 
On  right,  on  left,  above,  below, 
Sprung  up  at  once  the  lurking  foe ; 
From  shingles  gray  their  lances  start, 
The  bracken  bush  sends  forth  the  dart, 
The  rushes  and  the  willow-wand 
Are  bristling  into  axe  and  brand, 
And  every  tuft  of  broom  gives  life 
To  plaided  warrior  armed  for  strife. 
That  whistle  garrisoned  the  glen 
At  once  with  full  five  hundred  men, 
As  if  the  yawning  hill  to  heaven 
A  subterranean  host  had  given. 
Watching  their  leader's  beck  and  will, 
All  silent  there  they  stood  and  still. 
Like  the  loose  crags  whose  threatening  mass 


THE  LADY  OF   THE  LAKE. 


221 


Lay  tottering  o'er  the  hollow  pass, 
As  if  an  infant's  touch  could  "urge 
Their  headlong  passage  down  the  verge, 
With  step  and  weapon  forward  flung, 
Upon  the  mountain-side  they  hung. 
The  Mountaineer  cast  glance  of  pride 
Along  Benledi's  living  side, 
Then  fixed  his  eye  and  sable  brow 
Full  on  Fitz-James  :  '  How  say'st  thou  now  ? 
These  are  Clan- Alpine's  warriors  true ; 
And,  Saxon,  —  I  am  Roderick  Dhu  ! ' 

x. 

Fitz-James  was  brave  :  —  though  to  his  heart 

The  life-blood  thrilled  with  sudden  start, 

He  manned  himself  with  dauntless  air, 

Returned  the  Chief  his  haughty  stare, 

His  back  against  a  rock  he  bore, 

And  firmly  placed  his  foot  before_Lr=^— ^ 

'  Come  one,  come  all !  this  rock  shall  flyy 

From  its  firm  base  as  soon  as  I.' 

Sir  Roderick  marked,  — and  in  his  eyes 

Respect  was  mingled  with  surprise, 

And  the  stern  joy  which  warriors  feel 

In  foeman  worthy  of  their  steel. 

Short   space   he   stood  —  then   waved   his 

hand  : 
Down  sunk  the  disappearing  band  ; 
Each  warrior  vanished  where  he  stood, 
In  broom  or  bracken,  heath  or  wood ; 
Sunk  brand  and  spear  and  bended  bow, 
In  osiers  pale  and  copses  low ; 
It  seemed  as  if  their  mother  Earth 
Had  swallowed  up  her  warlike  birth. 
The  wind's  last  breath  had  tossed  in  air 
Pennon  and  plaid  and  plumage  fair,  — 


The  next  but  swept  a  lone  hill-side, 
Where  heath  and  fern  were  waving  wide  : 
The  sun's  last  glance  was  glinted  back 
From  spear  and  glaive,  from  targe  and  jack ; 
The  next,  all  unreflected,  shone 
On  bracken  green  and  cold  gray  stone. 

XI. 

Fitz-James  looked  round,  —  yet  scarce  Re- 
lieved 
The  witness  that  his  sight  received; 
Such  apparition  well  might  seem 
Delusion  of  a  dreadful  dream. 
Sir  Roderick  in  suspense  he  eyed, 
And  to  his  look  the  Chief  replied  : 
'  Fear  naught  —  nay,  that  I  need  not  say  — 
But  —  doubt  not  aught  from  mine  array. 
Thou  art  my  guest ;  —  I  pledged  my  word 
As  far  as  Coilantogle  ford  : 
Nor  would  I  call  a  clansman's  brand 
For  aid  against  one  valiant  hand, 
Though  on  our  strife  lay  every  vale 
Rent  by  the  Saxon  from  the  Gael. 
So  move  we  on  ;  —  I  only  meant 
To  show  the  reed  on  which  you  leant, 
Deeming  this  path  you  might  pursue 
Without  a  pass  from  Roderick  Dhu.' 
They  moved ;  —  I  said  Fitz-James  was  brave 
As  ever  knight  that  belted  glaive, 
Yet  dare  not  say  that  now  his  blood 
Kept  on  its  wont  and  tempered  flood, 
As,  following  Roderick's  stride,  he  drew 
That  seeming  lonesome  pathway  through, 
Which  yet  by  fearful  proof  was  rife 
With  lances,  that,  to  take  his  life, 
Waited  but  signal  from  a  guide, 


222 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL    WORKS. 


So  late  dishonored  and  defied^ 
Ever,  by  stealth,  his  eye  sought  round 
The  vanished  guardians  of  the  ground, 
And  still  from  copse  and  heather  deep 
Fancy  saw  spear  and  broadsword  peep. 
And  in  the  plover's  shrilly  strain 
The  signal  whistle  heard  again. 
Nor  breathed  he  free  till  far  behind 
The  pass  was  left ;  for  then  they  wind 
Along  a  wide  and  level  green, 


This  head  of  a  rebellious  clan, 

Hath    led    thee    safe,  through  watch    and 

ward, 
Far  past  Clan- Alpine's  outmost  guard. 
Now,  man  to  man,  and  steel  to  steel, 
A  Chieftain's  vengeance  thou  shalt  feel. 
See,  here  all  vantageless  I  stand, 
Armed  like  thyself  with  single  brand ; 
For  this  is  Coilantogle  ford, 
And  thou  must  keep  thee  with  thy  sword.' 


Where  neither  tree  nor  tuft  was  seen, 
Nor  rush  nor  bush  of  broom  was  near, 
To  hide  a  bonnet  or  a  spear. 

XII. 

The  Chief  in  silence  strode  before, 
And  reached  that  torrent's  sounding  shore, 
Which,  daughter  of  three  mighty  lakes, 
From  Vennachar  in  silver  breaks, 
Sweeps  through  the  plain,  and  ceaseless 

mines 
On  Bochastle  the  mouldering  lines, 
Where  Rome,  the  Empress  of  the  world, 
Of  yore  her  eagle  wings  unfurled. 
And  here  his  course  the  Chieftain  stayed, 
Threw  down  his  target  and  his  plaid, 
And  to  the  Lowland  warrior  said : 
*  Bold  Saxon  !  to  his  promise  just,    • 
Vich-Alpine  has  discharged  his  trust. 
This  murderous  Chief,  this  ruthless  man, 


XIII. 

The  Saxon  paused  :  '  I  ne'er  delayed, 
When  foeman  bade  me  draw  my  blade  ; 
Nay  more,  brave  Chief,  I  vowed  thy  death  ; 
Yet  sure  thy  fair  and  generous  faith, 
And  my  deep  debt  for  life  preserved, 
A  better  meed  have  well  deserved : 
Can  naught  but  blood  our  feud  atone  ? 
Are   there  no   means  ?  '  —  '  No,   stranger, 

none  ! 
And  hear,  —  to  fire  thy  flagging  zeal,  — 
The  Saxon  cause  rests  on  thy  steel ; 
For  thus  spoke  Fate  by  prophet  bred 
Between  the  living  and  the  dead  : 
"  Who  spills  the  foremost  foeman's  life, 
His  party  conquers  in  the  strife."  ' 
'  Then,  by  my  word,'  the  Saxon  said, 
'  The  riddle  is  already  read. 
Seek  yonder  brake  beneath  the  cliff,  — 
There  lies  Red  Murdoch,  stark  and  stiff. 


THE  LADY  OF   THE   LAKE. 


223 


Thus  Fate  hath  solved  her  prophecy ; 
Then  yield  to  Fate,  and  not  to  me. 
To  James  at  Stirling  let  us  go, 
When,  if  thou  wilt  be  still  his  foe, 
Or  if  the  King  shall  not  agree 
To  grant  thee  grace  and  favor  free. 


Not  yet  prepared  ?  —  By  heaven,  I  change 
My  thought,  and  hold  thy  valor  light 
As  that  of  some  vain  carpet  knight, 
Who  ill  deserved  my  courteous  care, 
And  whose  best  boast  is  but  to  wear 
A  braid  of  his  fair  lady's  hair.' 


I  plight  mine  honor,  oath,  and  word 
That,  to  thy  native  strengths  restored, 
With  each  advantage  shalt  thou  stand 
That  aids  thee  now  to  guard  thy  land.' 


XIV. 

Dark  lightning  flashed  from  Roderick's  eye 
4  Soars  thy  presumption,  then,  so  high, 
Because  a  wretched  kern  ye  slew, 
Homage  to  name  to  Roderick  Dhu  ? 
He  yields  not,  he,  to  man  nor  Fate  ! 
Thou  add'st  but  fuel  to  my  hate  ;  — 
My  clansman's  blood  demands  revenge. 


'  I  thank  thee,  Roderick,  for  the  word ! 
It  nerves  my  heart,  it  steels  my  sword ; 
For  I  have  sworn  this  braid  to  stain 
In  the  best  blood  that  warms  thy  vein. 
Now,  truce,  farewell !  and,  ruth,  begone  !  — 
Yet  think  not  that  by  thee  alone, 
Proud  Chief  !  can  courtesy  be  shown  ; 
Though  not  from  copse,  or  heath,  or  cairn, 
Start  at  my  whistle  clansmen  stern, 
Of  this  small  horn  one  feeble  blast 
Would  fearful  odds  against  thee  cast. 
But  fear  not  —  doubt    not  —  which   thou 

wilt  — 
We  try  this  quarrel  hilt  to  hilt.' 


2  24 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL    WORKS. 


Then  each  at  once  his  falchion  drew, 
Each  on  the  ground  his  scabbard  threw, 
Each  looked  to  sun  and  stream  and  plain 
As  what  they  ne'er  might  see  again  ; 
Then  foot  and  point  and  eye  opposed, 
In  dubious  strife  they  darkly  closed. 

XV. 

Ill  fared  it  then  with  Roderick  Dhu, 
That  on  the  field  his  targe  he  threw, 
Whose  brazen  studs  and  tough  bull-hide 
Had  death  so  often  dashed  aside  ; 
For,  trained  abroad  his  arms  to  wield, 
Fitz-James's  blade  was  sword  and  shield. 
He  practised  every  pass  and  ward, 
To  thrust,  to  strike,  to  feint,  to  guard  : 
While  less  expert,  though  stronger  far, 
The  Gael  maintained  unequal  war. 
Three  times  in  closing  strife  they  stood, 
And  thrice  the  Saxon  blade  drank  blood  : 
No  stinted  draught,  no  scanty  tide, 
The  gushing  flood  the  tartans  dyed. 


Fierce  Roderick  felt  the  fatal  drain, 

And  showered  his  blows  like  wintry  rain  ; 

And,  as  firm  rock  or  castle-roof 

Against  the  winter  shower  is  proof, 

The  foe,  invulnerable  still, 

Foiled  his  wild  rage  by  steady  skill : 

Till,  at  advantage  ta'en,  his  brand  i 

Forced  Roderick's  weapon  from  his  hand, 

And  backward  borne  upon  the  lea, 

Brought  the  proud  Chieftain  to  his  knee. 

xvi. 

1  Now  yield  thee,  or  by  Him  who  made 
The  world,   thy   heart's    blood    dyes   my 

blade  ! ' 
'  Thy  threats,  thy  mercy,  I  defy  ! 
Let  recreant  yield,  who  fears  to  die.' 
Like  adder  darting  from  his  coil, 
Like  wolf  that  dashes  through  the  toil, 
Like  mountain-cat  who  guards  her  young, 
Full  at  Fitz-James's  throat  he  sprung; 
Received,  but  recked  not  of  a  wound, 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE. 


225 


And  locked  his  arms  his  foeman  round.  — 
Now,  gallant  Saxon,  hold  thine  own  ! 
No  maiden's  hand  is  round  thee  thrown ! 
That  desperate  grasp  thy  frame  might  feel 
Through  bars  of  brass  and  triple  steel ! 
They  tug,  they  strain  !  down,  down  they  go, 
The  Gael  above,  Fitz-James  below. 
The  Chieftain's  gripe  his  throat  compressed, 
His  knee  was  planted  on  his  breast; 
His  clotted  locks  he  backward  threw, 
Across  his  brow  his  hand  he  drew, 
From  blood  and  mist  to  clear  his  sight, 
Then  gleamed  aloft  his  dagger  bright ! 
But  hate  and  fury  ill  supplied 
The  stream  of  life's  exhausted  tide, 
And  all  too  late  the  advantage  came, 
To  turn  the  odds  of  deadly  game ; 
For,  while  the  dagger  gleamed  on  high, 
Reeled  soul  and  sense,  reeled  brain  and 

eye. 
Down  came  the  blow !  but  in  the  heath 
The  erring  blade  found  bloodless  sheath. 
The  struggling  foe  may  now  unclasp 
The  fainting  Chief's  relaxing  grasp  : 
Unwounded  from  the  dreadful  close, 
But  breathless  all,  Fitz-James  arose. 


He  faltered  thanks  to  Heaven  for  life, 
Redeemed,  unhoped,  from  desperate  strife 
Next  on  his  foe  his  look  he  cast, 
Whose  every  gasp  appeared  his  last ; 
In  Roderick's  gore  he  dipped  the  braid,  — 


1  Poor  Blanche  !  thy  wrongs  are  dearly  paid ; 
Yet  with  thy  foe  must  die,  or  live, 
The  praise  that  faith  and  valor  give.' 
With  that  he  blew  a  bugle  note, 
Undid  the  collar  from  his  throat, 
Unbonneted,  and  by  the  wave 
Sat  down  his  brow  and  hands  to  lave. 
Then  faint  afar  are  heard  the  feet 
Of  rushing  steeds  in  gallop  fleet ; 
The  sounds  increase,  and  now  are  seen 
Four  mounted  squires  in  Lincoln  green  ; 
Two  who  bear  lance,  and  two  who  lead 
By  loosened  rein  a  saddled  steed ; 
Each  onward  held  his  headlong  course, 
And  by  Fitz-James  reined  up  his  horse,  — 
With  wonder  viewed  the  bloody  spot,  — 
'  Exclaim  not,  gallants  !  question  not.  — 
You,  Herbert  and  Luffness,  alight, 
And  bind  the  wounds  of  yonder  knight ; 
Let  the  gray  palfrey  bear  his  weight, 
We  destined  for  a  fairer  freight, 
And  bring  him  on  to  Stirling  straight ; 
I  will  before  at  better  speed, 
To  seek  fresh  horse  and  fitting  weed. 
The  sun  rides  high :  —  I  must  be  boune 
To  see  the  archer-game  at  noon : 
But  lightly  Bayard  clears  the  lea. — 
De  Vaux  and  Herries,  follow  me. 

XVIII. 

'  Stand,  Bayard,  stand ! '  —  the  steed  obeyed, 
With  arching  neck  and  bended  head, 
And  glancing  eye  and  quivering  ear, 
As  if  he  loved  his  lord  to  hear. 


226 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


No  foot  Fitz-James  in  stirrup  stayed, 
No  grasp  upon  the  saddle  laid, 
But  wreathed  his  left  hand  in  the  mane. 
And  lightly  bounded  from  the  plain, 
Turned  on  the  horse  his  armed  heel, 
And  stirred  his  courage  with  the  steel. 
Bounded  the  fiery  steed  in  air, 


And  on  the  opposing  shore  take  ground, 
With  plash,  with  scramble,  and  with  bound. 
Right-hand    they   leave   thy   cliffs,   Craig- 

Forth  ! 
And  soon  the  bulwark  of  the  North, 
Gray  Stirling,  with  her  towers  and  town, 
Upon  their  fleet  career  looked  down. 


The  rider  sat  erect  and  fair, 
Then  like  a  bolt  from  steel  crossbow 
Forth  launched,  along  the  plain  they  go. 
They  dashed  that  rapid  torrent  through, 
And  up  Carhonie's  hill  they  flew; 
Still  at  the  gallop  pricked  the  Knight, 
His  merrymen  followed  as  they  might. 
Along  thy  banks,  swift  Teith,  they  ride, 
And  in  the  race  they  mock  thy  tide  ; 
Torry  and  Lendrick  now  are  past, 
And  Deanstown  lies  behind  them  cast ; 


XIX. 

As  up  the  flinty  path  they  strained, 
Sudden  his  steed  the  leader  reined; 
A  signal  to  his  squire  he  flung, 
Who  instant  to  his  stirrup  sprung :  — 
'  Seest  thou,  De  Vaux,  yon  woodsman  gray, 
Who  townward  holds  the  rocky  way, 
Of  stature  tall  and  poor  array  ? 
Mark'st  thou  the  firm,  yet  active  stride, 
With  which  he  scales  the  mountain-side  ? 


They  rise,  the  bannered  towers  of  Doune, 
They  sink  in  distant  woodland  soon ; 
Blair-Drummond  sees  the  hoofs  strike  fire, 
They  sweep  like  breeze  through  Ochtertyre ; 
They  mark  just  glance  and  disappear 
The  lofty  brow  of  ancient  Kier ; 
They  bathe  their  coursers'  sweltering  sides, 
Dark  Forth  !  amid  thy  sluggish  tides, 


Know'st  thou  from  whence  he  comes,  or 

whom  ?  ' 
1  No,  by  my  word ;  —  a  burly  groom 
He  seems,  who  in  the  field  or  chase 
A  baron's  train  would  nobly  grace  — ' 
'  Out,  out,  De  Vaux !  can  fear  supply, 
And  jealousy,  no  sharper  eye  ? 
Afar,  ere  to  the  hill  he  drew, 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE. 


227 


That  stately  form  and  step  I  knew  ; 
Like  form  in  Scotland  is  not  seen, 
Treads  not  such  step  on  Scottish  green. 
'T  is  James  of  Douglas,  by  Saint  Serle  ! 
The  uncle  of  the  banished  Earl. 
Away,  away,  to  court,  to  sliow 
The  near  approach  of  dreaded  foe  : 
The  King  must  stand  upon  his  guard ; 
Douglas  and  he  must  meet  prepared.' 
Then  right-hand  wheeled  their  steeds,  and 

straight 
They  won  the  Castle's  postern  gate. 


xx. 

The  Douglas  who  had  bent  his  way 
From  Cambus-kenneth's  abbey  gray, 
Now,  as  he  climbed  the  rocky  shelf, 
Held  sad  communion  with  himself  :  — 
'  Yes  !  all  is  true  my  fears  could  frame  ; 
A  prisoner  lies  the  noble  Graeme, 
And  fiery  Roderick  soon  will  feel 
The  vengeance  of  the  royal  steel. 
I,  only  I,  can  ward  their  fate,  — 
God  grant  the  ransom  come  not  late  ! 
The  Abbess  hath  her  promise  given, 
My  child  shall  be  the  bride  of  Heaven ; 
Be  pardoned  one  repining  tear  ! 
For  He  who  gave  her  knows  how  dear, 
How  excellent !  —  but  that  is  by, 
And  now  my  business  is  —  to  die.  — 
Ye  towers  !  within  whose  circuit  dread 
A  Douglas  by  his  sovereign  bled ; 
And  thou,  O  sad  and  fatal  mound ! 


That  oft  hast  heard  the  death-axe  sound, 

As  on  the  noblest  of  the  land 

Fell  the  stern  headsman's  bloody  hand,  — 

The  dungeon,  block,  and  nameless  tomb 

Prepare  —  for  Douglas  seeks  his  doom  ! 

But  hark  !  what  blithe  and  jolly  peal 

Makes  the  Franciscan  steeple  reel? 

And  see  !  upon  the  crowded  street, 

In  motley  groups  what  masquers  meet ! 

Banner  and  pageant*  pipe  and  drum, 

And  merry  morrice-dancers  come. 

I  guess,  by  all  this  quaint  array, 

The  burghers  hold  their  sports  to-day. 

James  will  be  there ;  he  loves  such  show, 

Where  the  good  yeoman  bends  his  bow, 

And  the  tough  wrestler  foils  his  foe, 

As  well  as  where,  in  proud  career, 

The  high-born  tilter  shivers  spear. 

I  '11  follow  to  the  Castle-park, 

And   play  my  prize ;  —  King  James   shall 

mark 
If  age  has  tamed  these  sinews  stark, 
Whose  force  so  oft  in  happier  days 
His  boyish  wonder  loved  to  praise.' 

XXI. 

The  Castle  gates  were  open  flung, 

The  quivering  drawbridge  rocked  and  rung, 

And  echoed  loud  the  flinty  street 

Beneath  the  courser's  clattering  feet, 

As  slowly  down  the  steep  descent 

Fair  Scotland's  King  and  nobles  went, 

While  all  along  the  crowded  way 


228 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL   WORKS. 


Was  jubilee  and  loud  huzza. 

And  ever  James  was  bending  low 

To  his  white  jennet's  saddle-bow, 

Doffing  his  cap  to  city  dame, 

Who    smiled    and  blushed    for  pride  and 

shame. 
And  well  the  simperer  might  be  vain,  — 
He  chose  the  fairest  of  the  train. 
Gravely  he  greets  each  city  sire, 
Commends  each  pageant's  quaint  attire, 
Gives  to  the  dancers  thanks  aloud, 
And  smiles  and  nods  upon  the  crowd, 
Who  rend  the  heavens  with  their  acclaims, — 
'Longlivethe  Commons' King,  King  James!' 


XXII. 

Now,  in  the  Castle-park,  drew  out 
Their  checkered  bands  the  joyous  rout. 
There  morricers,  with  bell  at  heel 
And  blade  in  hand,  their  mazes  wheel ; 
But  chief,  beside  the  butts,  there  stand 
Bold  Robin  Hood  and  all  his  band,  — 
Friar  Tuck  with  quarterstaff  and  cowl, 
Old  Scathelocke  with  his  surly  scowl, 
Maid  Marian,  fair  as  ivory  bone, 
Scarlet,  and  Mutch,  and  Little  John  ; 
Their  bugles  challenge  all  that  will. 
In  archery  to  prove  their  skill. 
The  Douglas  bent  a  bow  of  might,  — 


Behind  the  King  thronged  peer  and  knight, 
And  noble  dame  and  damsel  bright, 
Whose  fiery  steeds  ill  brooked  the  stay 
Of  the  steep  street  and  crowded  way. 
But  in  the  train  you  might  discern 
Dark  lowering  brow  and  visage  stern ; 
There  nobles  mourned  their  pride  restrained, 
And  the  mean  burgher's  joys  disdained ; 
And  chiefs,  who,  hostage  for  their  clan, 
Were  each  from  home  a  banished  man, 
There  thought  upon  their  own  gray  tower, 
Their  waving  woods,  their  feudal  power, 
And  deemed  themselves  a  shameful  part 
Of  pageant  which  they  cursed  in  heart. 


His  first  shaft  centred  in  the  white,  • 

And  when  in  turn  he  shot  again, 

His  second  split  the  first  in  twain. 

From  the  King's  hand  must  Douglas  take 

A  silver  dart,  the  archer's  stake ; 

Fondly  he  watched,  with  watery  eye, 

Some  answering  glance  of  sympathy,  — 

No  kind  emotion  made  reply  ! 

Indifferent  as  to  archer  wight, 

The  monarch  gave  the  arrow  bright. 

XXIII. 

Now,  clear  the  ring !  for,  hand  to  hand, 
The  manly  wrestlers  take  their  stand. 


THE   LADY  OF  THE   LAKE. 


22() 


Two  o'er  the  rest  superior  rose, 
And  proud  demanded  mightier  foes,  — 
Nor  called  in  vain,  for  Douglas  came.  — 
For  life  is  Hugh  of  Larbert  lame ; 
Scarce  better  John  of  Alloa's  fare. 
Whom  senseless  home  his  comrades  bare. 
Prize  of  the  wrestling  match,  the  King 
To  Douglas  gave  a  golden  ring, 
While  coldly  glanced  his  eye  of  blue, 
As  frozen  drop  of  wintry  dew. 
Douglas  would  speak,  but  in  his  breast 
His  struggling  soul  his  words  suppressed ; 
Indignant  then  he  turned  him  where 
Their  arms  the  brawny  yeomen  bare, 
To  hurl  the  massive  bar  in  air. 
When  each  his  utmost  strength  had  shown, 
The  Douglas  rent  an  earth-fast  stone 
From  its  deep  bed,  then  heaved  it  high, 
.And  sent  the  fragment  through  the  sky 
A  rood  beyond  the  farthest  mark ; 
And  still  in  Stirling's  royal  park, 
The  gray-haired  sires,  who  know  the  past, 
To  strangers  point  the  Douglas  cast, 
And  moralize  on  the  decay 
Of  Scottish  strength  in  modern  day. 

XXIV. 

The  vale  with  loud  applauses  rang, 
The  Ladies'  Rock  sent  back  the  clang. 
The  King,  with  look  unmoved,  bestowed 
A  purse  well  filled  with  pieces  broad. 
Indignant  smiled  the  Douglas  proud, 
And  threw  the  gold  among  the  crowd, 
Who  now  with  anxious  wonder  scan, 
And  sharper  glance,  the  dark  gray  man  ; 
Till  whispers  rose  among  the  throng, 


That  heart  so  free,  and  hand  so  strong, 
Must  to  the  Douglas  blood  belong. 
The  old  men  marked  and  shook  the  head, 
To  see  his  hair  with  silver  spread, 
And  winked  aside,  and  told  each  son 
Of  feats  upon  the  English  done, 
Ere  Douglas  of  the  stalwart  hand 
Was  exiled  from  his  native  land. 
The  women  praised  his  stately  form, 
Though  wrecked  by  many  a  winter's  storm 
The  youth  with  awe  and  wonder  saw 
His  strength  surpassing  Nature's  law. 
Thus  judged,  as  is  their  wont,  the  crowd, 
Till  murmurs  rose  to  clamors  loud. 
But  not  a  glance  from  that  proud  ring 
Of  peers  who  circled  round  the  King 
With.  Douglas  held  communion  kind, 
Or  called  the  banished  man  to  mind ; 
No,  not  from  those  who  at  the  chase 
Once  held  his  side  the  honored  place, 
Begirt  his  board,  and  in  the  field 
Found  safety  underneath  his  shield ; 
For  he  whom  royal  eyes  disown, 
When  was  his  form  to  courtiers  known  ! 


The  Monarch  saw  the  gambols  flag, 
And  bade  let  loose  a  gallant  stag, 
Whose  pride,  the  holiday  to  crown, 
Two  favorite  greyhounds  should  pull  down, 
That  venison  free  and  Bourdeaux  wine 
Might  serve  the  archery  to  dine. 
But  Lufra,  —  whom  from  Douglas'  side 
Nor  bribe  nor  threat  could  e'er  divide, 
The  fleetest  hound  in  all  the  North,  — 
Brave  Lufra  saw,  and  darted  forth. 


230 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL   WORKS. 


She  left  the  royal  hounds  midway, 
And  dashing  on  the  antlered  prey, 
Sunk  her  sharp  muzzle  in  his  flank, 
And  deep  the  flowing  life-blood  drank. 
The  king's  stout  huntsman  saw  the  sport 
By  strange  intruder  broken  short, 
Came  up,  and  with  his  leash  unbound 
In  anger  struck  the  noble  hound. 
The  Douglas  had  endured,  that  morn, 
The  King's  cold  look,  the  nobles'  scorn, 
And  last,  and  worst  to  spirit  proud, 
Had  borne  the  pity  of  the  crowd  ; 
But  Lufra  had  been  fondly  bred, 
To  share  his  board,  to  watch  his  bed, 
And  oft  would  Ellen  Lufra's  neck 
In  maiden  glee  with  garlands  deck  ; 
They  were  such  playmates  that  with  name 
Of  Lufra  Ellen's  image  came. 
His  stifled  wrath  is  brimming  high, 
In  darkened  brow  and  flashing  eye ; 
As  waves  before  the  bark  divide, 
The  crowd  gave  way  before  his  stride  : 
Needs  but  a  buffet  and  no  more, 
The  groom  lies  senseless  in  his  gore. 
Such  blow  no  other  hand  could  deal, 
Though  gauntleted  in  glove  of  steel. 


Then  clamored  loud  the  royal  train, 
And  brandished  swords  and  staves  amain, 
But  stern  the  Baron's  warning :  '  Back  ! 
Back,  on  your  lives,  ye  menial  pack ! 
Beware  the  Douglas.  —  Yes  !  behold, 
King  James  !     The   Douglas,   doomed   of 

old, 
And  vainly  sought  for  near  and  far, 
A  victim  to  atone  the  war, 
A  willing  victim,  now  attends, 
Nor  craves  thy  grace  but  for  his  friends.  — ' 
4  Thus  is  my  clemency  repaid  ? 
Presumptuous  Lord  ! '  the  Monarch  said  : 
*  Of  thy  misproud  ambitious  clan, 
Thou,  James  of  Bothwell,  wert  the  man, 
The  only  man,  in  whom  a  foe 
My  woman-mercy  would  not  know ; 
But  shall  a  Monarch's  presence  brook 
Injurious  blow  and  haughty  look  ?  — 
What  ho  !  the  Captain  of  our  Guard  ! 
Give  the  offender  fitting  ward.  — 
Break  off  the  sports ! '  —  for  tumult  rose, 
And  yeomen  'gan  to  bend  their  bows,  — 
1  Break  off  the  sports  ! '  he  said  and  frowned, 
'  And  bid  our  horsemen  clear  the  ground.' 

XXVII. 

Then  uproar  wild  and  misarray 
Marred  the  fair  form  of  festal  day. 
The  horsemen  pricked  among  the  crowd, 
Repelled  by  threats  and  insult  loud  ; 
To  earth  are  borne  the  old  and  weak, 


The  timorous  fly,  the  women  shriek ; 

With  flint,  with  shaft,  with  staff,  with  bar, 

The  hardier  urge  tumultuous  war. 

At  once  round  Douglas  darkly  sweep 

The  royal  spears  in  circle  deep, 

And  slowly  scale  the  pathway  steep, 

While  on  the  rear  in  thunder  pour 

The  rabble  with  disordered  roar. 

With  grief  the  noble  Douglas  saw 

The  Commons  rise  against  the  law, 

And  to  the  leading  soldier  said  : 

'  Sir  John  of  Hyndford,  't  was  my  blade, 

That  knighthood  on  thy  shoulder  laid ; 

For  that  good  deed  permit  me  then 

A  word  with  these  misguided  men.  — 

XXVIII. 

'  Hear,  gentle  friends,  ere  yet  for  me 

Ye  break  the  bands  of  fealty. 

My  life,  my  honor,  and  my  cause, 

I  tender  free  to  Scotland's  laws. 

Are  these  so  weak  as  must  require 

The  aid  of  your  misguided  ire  ? 

Or  if  I  suffer  causeless  wrong, 

Is  then  my  selfish  rage  so  strong, 

My  sense  of  public  weal  so  low, 

That,  for  mean  vengeance  on  a  foe, 

Those  cords  of  love  I  should  unbind 

Which  knit  my  country  and  my  kind  ? 

O  no  !     Believe,  in  yonder  tower 

It  will  not  soothe  my  captive  hour, 

To  know  those  spears  our  foes  should  dread 

For  me  in  kindred  gore  are  red : 

To  know,  in  fruitless  brawl  begun, 

For  me  that  mother  wails  her  son, 

For  me  that  widow's  mate  expires, 

For  me  that  orphans  weep  their  sires, 

That  patriots  mourn  insulted  laws, 

And  curse  the  Douglas  for  the  cause. 

O  let  your  patience  ward  such  ill, 

And  keep  your  right  to  love  me  still ! ' 

XXIX. 

The  crowd's  wild  fury  sunk  again 

In  tears,  as  tempests  melt  in  rain. 

With  lifted  hands  and  eyes,  they  prayed 

For  blessings  on  his  generous  head 

Who  for  his  country  felt  alone, 

And  prized  her  blood  beyond  his  own. 

Old  men  upon  the  verge  of  life 

Blessed  him  who  stayed  the  civil  strife  ; 

And  mothers  held  their  babes  on  high, 

The  self-devoted  Chief  to  spy, 

Triumphant  over  wrongs  and  ire, 

To  whom  the  prattlers  owed  a  sire. 

Even  the  rough  soldier's  heart  was  moved: 

As  if  behind  some  bier  beloved, 

With  trailing  arms  and  drooping  head, 

The  Douglas  up  the  hill  h*e  led, 

And  at  the  Castle's  battled  verge, 

With  sighs  resigned  his  honored  charge. 


THE  LADY  OF   THE  LAKE. 


231 


XXX. 

The  offended  Monarch  rode  apart, 
With  bitter  thought  and  swelling  heart, 
And  would  not  now  vouchsafe  again 
Through  Stirling  streets  to  lead  his  train. 
1  O  Lennox,  who  would  wish  to  rule 
This  changeling  crowd,  this  common  fool  ? 
Hear'st  thou,'  he  said,  '  the  loud  acclaim 
With  which  they  shout  the  Douglas  name? 
With  like  acclaim  the  vulgar  throat 
Strained  for  King  James  their  morning  note ; 


I  guess  his  cognizance  afar  — 

What  from  our  cousin,  John  of  Mar?' 

'  He  prays,  my  liege,  your  sports  keep  bound 

Within  the  safe  and  guarded  ground ; 

For  some  foul  purpose  yet  unknown,  — 

Most  sure  for  evil  to  the  throne,  — 

The  outlawed  Chieftain,  Roderick  Dhu, 

Has  summoned  his  rebellious  crew; 

'T  is  said,  in  James  of  Bothwell's  aid 

These  loose  banditti  stand  arrayed. 

The  Earl  of  Mar  this  morn  from  Doune 


With  like  acclaim  they  hailed  the  day 
When  first  I  broke  the  Douglas  sway ; 
And  like  acclaim  would  Douglas  greet 
If  he  could  hurl  me  from  my  seat. 
Who  o'er  the  herd  would  wish  to  reign, 
Fantastic,  fickle,  fierce,  and  vain  ? 
Vain  as  the  leaf  upon  the  stream, 
And  fickle  as  a  changeful  dream ; 
Fantastic  as  a  woman's  mood, 
And  fierce  as  Frenzy's  fevered  blood. 
Thou  many-headed  monster-thing, 
O  who  would  wish  to  be  thy  king  ?  — 

XXXI. 

4  But  soft !  what  messenger  of  speed 
Spurs  hitherward  his  panting  steed  ? 


To  break  their  muster  marched,  and  soon 
Your  Grace  will  hear  of  battle  fought ; 
But  earnestly  the  Earl  besought, 
Till  for  such  danger  he  provide, 
With  scanty  train  you  will  not  ride.' 

XXXIL 

1  Thou  warn'st  me  I  have  done  amiss,  — 
I  should  have  earlier  looked  to  this  ; 
I  lost  it  in  this  bustling  day.  — 
Retrace  with  speed  thy  former  way ; 
Spare  not  for  spoiling  of  thy  steed, 
The  best  of  mine  shall  be  thy  meed. 
Say  to  our  faithful  Lord  of  Mar, 
We  do  forbid  the  intended  war ; 
Roderick  this  morn  in  single  fight 


232 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL    WORKS. 


Was  made  our  prisoner  by  a  knight, 
And  Douglas  hath  himself  and  cause 
Submitted  to  our  kingdom's  laws. 
The  tidings  of  their  leaders  lost 
Will  soon  dissolve  the  mountain  host, 
Nor  would  we  that  the  vulgar  feel, 
For  their  Chief's  crimes,  avenging  steel. 
Bear  Mar  our  message,  Braco,  fly ! ' 
He  turned  his  steed,  — '  My  liege,  I  hie. 
Yet  ere  I  cross  this  lily  lawn 
I  fear  the  broadswords  will  be  drawn.' 
The  turf  the  flying  courser  spurned, 
And  to  his  towers  the  King  returned. 

XXXIII. 

Ill  with  King  James's  mood  that  day 
Suited  gay  feast  and  minstrel  lay  ; 
Soon  were  dismissed  the  courtly  throng, 
And  soon  cut  short  the  festal  song. 


Nor  less  upon  the  saddened  town 

The  evening  sunk  in  sorrow  down. 

The  burghers  spoke  of  civil  jar, 

Of  rumored  feuds  and  mountain  war, 

Of  Moray,  Mar,  and  Roderick  Dhu, 

All  up  in  arms  ;  —  the  Douglas  too, 

They  mourned  him  pent  within  the  hold. 

'Where  stout  Earl  William  was  of  old.'  — 

And  there  his  word  the  speaker  stayed, 

And  finger  on  his  lip  he  laid, 

Or  pointed  to  his  dagger  blade. 

But  jaded  horsemen  from  the  west 

At  evening  to  the  Castle  pressed, 

And  busy  talkers  said  they  bore 

Tidings  of  fight  on  Katrine's  shore  ; 

At  noon  the  deadly  fray  begun, 

And  lasted  till  the  set  of  sun. 

Thus  giddy  rumor  shook  the  town, 

Till  closed  the  Night  her  pennons  brown. 


THE  LADY  OF   THE  LAKE. 


233 


f-                                         ' _ 

i, 
4                                                    fl 

\ 

'■■ 

',**     ^§     *W    \            "*^5?*  '          ^        -^A                          '^'    ^=W/ 

M 

Si 

1 7    I               •■    1 

^S5 

2Efte  ILaog  of  tjje  ILafce. 

CANTO    SIXTH. 
THE   GUARD-ROOM. 


The  sun,  awakening,  through  the  smoky  air 

Of  the  dark  city  casts  a  sullen  glance, 
Rousing  each  caitiff  to  his  task  of  care, 

Of  sinful  man  the  sad  inheritance  ; 
Summoning    revellers    from    the    lagging 
dance, 
Scaring  the  prowling  robber  to  his  den  ; 
Gilding  on  battled  tower  the  warder's  lance, 
And  warning  student  pale  to  leave   his 
pen, 
And  yield  his  drowsy  eyes  to  the  kind  nurse 
of  men. 

What  various  scenes,  and  O,  what  scenes 
of  woe, 
Are  witnessed  by  that  red  and  struggling 
beam ! 
The  fevered  patient,  from  his  pallet  low, 
Through    crowded    hospital    beholds    it 
stream ; 
The  ruined  maiden  trembles  at  its  gleam, 
The  debtor  wakes  to  thought  of  gyve  and 
jail, 


The  love-lorn  wretch  starts  from  torment- 
ing dream ; 
The  wakeful  mother,  by  the  glimmering 
pale, 

Trims  her  sick  infant's  couch,  and  soothes 
his  feeble  wail. 


11. 

At  dawn  the  towers  of  Stirling  rang 
With  soldier-step  and  weapon-clang, 
While  drums  with  rolling  note  foretell 
Relief  to  weary  sentinel. 
Through  narrow  loop  and  casement  barred, 
The  sunbeams  sought  the  Court  of  Guard, 
And,  struggling  with  the  smoky  air, 
Deadened  the  torches'  yellow  glare. 
In  comfortless  alliance  shone 
The  lights  through  arch  of  blackened  stone, 
And  showed  wild  shapes  in  garb  of  war, 
Faces  deformed  with  beard  and  scar, 
All  haggard  from  the  midnight  watch, 
And  fevered  with  the  stern  debauch  ; 
For  the  oak  table's  massive  board, 
Flooded  with  wine,  with  fragments  stored, 
And  beakers  drained,  and  cups  o'erthrown, 
Showed  in  what  sport  the  night  had  flown. 
Some,  weary,  snored  on  floor  and  bench ; 
Some  labored  still  their  thirst  to  quench  ; 
Some,  chilled  with  watching,  spread  their 

hands 
O'er  the  huge  chimney's  dying  brands. 


234 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL    WORKS. 


While  round  them,  or  beside  them  flung. 
At  every  step  their  harness  rung. 


in. 


These  drew  not  for  their  fields  the  sword. 
Like  tenants  of  a  feudal  lord, 
Nor  owned  the  patriarchal  claim 
Of  Chieftain  in  their  leader's  name ; 
Adventurers  they,  from  far  who  roved, 


They  held  debate  of  bloody  fray, 
Fought  'twixt  Loch  Katrine  and  Achray. 
Fierce  was  their  speech,  and  mid  their  words 
Their  hands  oft  grappled  to  their  swords  : 
Nor  sunk  their  tone  to  spare  the  ear 
Of  wounded  comrades  groaning  near, 
Whose  mangled  limbs  and  bodies  gored 
Bore  token  of  the  mountain  sword, 


To  live  by  battle  which  they  loved. 
There  the  Italian's  clouded  face, 
The  swarthy  Spaniard's  there  you  trace  : 
The  mountain-loving  Switzer  there 
More  freely  breathed  in  mountain-air  ; 
The  Fleming  there  despised  the  soil 
That  paid  so  ill  the  laborer's  toil ; 
Their  rolls  showed   French  and   German 

name  ; 
And  merry  England's  exiles  came, 
To  share,  with  ill-concealed  disdain. 
Of  Scotland's  pay  the  scanty  gain. 
All  brave  in  arms,  well  trained  to  wield 
The  heavy  halberd,  brand,  and  shield : 
In  camps  licentious,  wild,  and  bold; 
In  pillage  fierce  and  uncontrolled; 
And  now,  by  holytide  and  feast, 
From  rules  of  discipline  released. 


Though,  neighboring  to  the  Court  of  Guard, 
Their    prayers   and    feverish   wails    were 

heard,  — 
Sad  burden  to  the  ruffian  joke, 
And  savage  oath  by  fury  spoke  !  — 
At  length  up  started  John  of  Brent, 
A  yeoman  from  the  banks  of  Trent ; 
A  stranger  to  respect  or  fear, 
In  peace  a  chaser  of  the  deer, 
In  host  a  hardy  mutineer, 
But  still  the  boldest  of  the  crew 
When  deed  of  danger  was  to  do. 
He  grieved  that  day  their  games  cut  short, 
And  marred  the  dicer's  brawling  sport, 
And  shouted  loud,  '  Renew  the  bowl ! 
And,  while  a  merry  catch  I  troll, 
Let  each  the  buxom  chorus  bear, 
Like  brethren  of  the  brand  and  spear.' 


THE  LADY  OF   THE  LAKE. 


'■35 


Pointer's  Song. 

Our   vicar  still   preaches    that    Peter   and 

Poule 
Laid  a  swinging  long  curse  on  the  bonny 

brown  bowl, 
That   there 's   wrath   and   despair   in    the 

jolly  black-jack, 
And  the  seven  deadly  sins  in  a  flagon  of 

sack  ; 
Yet  whoop,  Barnaby  !  off  with  thy  liquor, 
Drink  upsees  out,  and  a  fig  for  the  vicar ! 

Our  vicar  he  calls  it  damnation  to  sip 
The  ripe  ruddy  dew  of  a  woman's  dear  lip, 
Says  that  Beelzebub  lurks  in  her  kerchief 

so  sly, 
And  Apollyon  shoots  darts  from  her  merry 

black  eye  ; 
Yet  whoop,  Jack  !  kiss  Gillian  the  quicker, 
Till  she  bloom  like  a  rose,  and  a  fig  for  the 


Our  vicar  thus  preaches,  —  and  why  should 

he  not  ? 
For  the  dues  of  his  cure  are  the  placket 

and  pot : 


And  't  is  right  of  his  office  poor  laymen  to 

lurch 
Who   infringe   the   domains    of   our   good 

Mother  Church. 
Yet  whoop,  bully-boys  !  off  with  your  liquor, 
Sweet  Marjorie  's  the  word,  and  a  fig  for 

the  vicar ! 

VI. 

The  warder's  challenge,  heard  without, 
Stayed  in  mid-roar  the  merry  shout. 
A  soldier  to  the  portal  went,  — 
'  Here  is  old  Bertram,  sirs,  of  Ghent  j 
And  —  beat  for  jubilee  the  drum  !  — 
A  maid  and  minstrel  with  him  come.' 
Bertram,  a  Fleming,  gray  and  scarred, 
Was  entering  now  the  Court  of  Guard, 
A  harper  with  him,  and,  in  plaid 
All  muffled  close,  a  mountain  maid, 
Who  backward  shrunk  to  'scape  the  view 
Of  the  loose  scene  and  boisterous  crew. 
'  What  news  ? '  they  roared  :  —  'I  only  know, 
From  noon  till  eve  we  fought  with  foe, 
As  wild  and  as  untamable 
As  the  rude  mountains  where  they  dwell : 
On  both  sides  store  of  blood  is  lost, 
Nor  much  success  can  either  boast.'  — 
'  But   whence   thy  captives,  friend  ?    such 
spoil 


2^6 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL    WORKS. 


As  theirs  must  needs  reward  thy  toil. 
Old  dost  thou  wax,  and  wars  grow  sharp ; 
Thou  now  hast  glee-maiden  and  harp  ! 
Get  thee  an  ape,  and  trudge  the  land, 
The  leader  of  a  juggler  band.' 

VII. 

'  No,  comrade  ;  —  no  such  fortune  mine. 

After  the  fight  these  sought  our  line, 

That  aged  harper  and  the  girl, 

And,  having  audience  of  the  Earl, 

Mar  bade  I  should  purvey  them  steed, 

And  bring  them  hitherward  with  speed. 

Forbear  your  mirth  and  rude  alarm, 

For  none  shall  do  them  shame  or  harm. — 

'  Hear  ye  his  boast  ?  '  cried  John  of  Brent, 

Ever  to  strife  and  jangling  bent ; 

'  Shall  he  strike  doe  beside  our  lodge, 

And  yet  the  jealous  niggard  grudge 

To  pay  the  forester  his  fee  ? 

I  '11  have  my  share  howe'er  it  be, 

Despite  of  Moray,  Mar,  or  thee.' 

Bertram  his  forward  step  withstood  ; 

And,  burning  in  his  vengeful  mood, 

Old  Allan,  though  unfit  for  strife, 

Laid  hand  upon  his  dagger-knife ; 

But  Ellen  boldly  stepped  between, 

And  dropped  at  once  the  tartan  screen  :  — 

So,  from  his  morning  cloud,  appears 

The  sun  of  May  through  summer  tears. 

The  savage  soldiery,  amazed, 

As  on  descended  angel  gazed  ; 

Even  hardy  Brent,  abashed  and  tamed, 

Stood  half  admiring,  half  ashamed. 

VIII. 

Boldly  she  spoke  :  '  Soldiers,  attend  ! 
My  father  was  the  soldier's  friend, 
Cheered  him  in  camps,  in  marches  led, 
And  with  him  in  the  battle  bled. 
Not  from  the  valiant  or  the  strong 
Should  exile's  daughter  suffer  wrong.' 
Answered  De  Brent,  most  forward  still 
In  every  feat  or  good  or  ill : 
1  I  shame  me  of  the  part  I  played ; 
And  thou  an  outlaw's  child,  poor  maid  ! 
An  outlaw  I  by  forest  laws, 
And  merry  Needwood  knows  the  cause. 
Poor  Rose,  —  if  Rose  be  living  now,'  — 
He  wiped  his  iron  eye  and  brow,  — 
'  Must  bear  such  age,  I  think,  as  thou.  — 
Hear  ye,  my  mates  !  I  go  to  call 
The  Captain  of  our  watch  to  hall  : 
There  lies  my  halberd  on  the  floor; 
And  he  that  steps  my  halberd  o'er, 
To  do  the  maid  injurious  part, 
My  shaft  shall  quiver  in  his  heart! 
Beware  loose  speech,  or  jesting  rough  ; 
Ye  all  know  John  de  Brent.     Enough.' 


Their  Captain  came,  a  gallant  young,  — 

Of  Tullibardine's  house  he  sprung,  — 

Nor  wore  he  yet  the  spurs  of  knight ; 

Gay  was  his  mien,  his  humor  light, 

And,  though  by  courtesy  controlled, 

Forward  his  speech,  his  bearing  bold. 

The  high-born  maiden  ill  could  brook 

The  scanning  of  his  curious  look 

And  dauntless  eye  :  —  and  yet,  in  sooth, 

Young  Lewis  was  a  generous  youth ; 

But  Ellen's  lovely  face  and  mien, 

111  suited  to  the  garb  and  scene, 

Might  lightly  bear  construction  strange, 

And  give  loose  fancy  scope  to  range. 

'  Welcome  to  Stirling  towers,  fair  maid  ! 

Come  ye  to  seek  a  champion's  aid, 

On  palfrey  white,  with  harper  hoar, 

Like  errant  damosel  of  yore  ? 

Does  thy  high  quest  a  knight  require, 

Or  may  the  venture  suit  a  squire  ?  ' 

Her  dark  eye  flashed ;  —  she  paused  and 

sighed :  — 
'  O  what  have  I  to  do  with  pride  !  — 
Through  scenes  of  sorrow,  shame,  and  strife, 
A  suppliant  for 'a  father's  life, 
I  crave  an  audience  of  the  King. 
Behold,  to  back  my  suit,  a  ring, 
The  royal  pledge  of  grateful  claims, 
Given  by  the  Monarch  to  Fitz-James.' 


The  signet-ring  young  Lewis  took 

With  deep  respect  and  altered  look, 

And  said  :  '  This  ring  our  duties  own ; 

And  pardon,  if  to  worth  unknown, 

In  semblance  mean  obscurely  veiled, 

Lady,  in  aught  my  folly  failed. 

Soon  as  the  day  flings  wide  his  gates, 

The  King  shall  know  what  suitor  waits. 

Please  you  meanwhile  in  fitting  bower 

Repose  you  till  his  waking  hour ; 

Female  attendance  shall  obey 

Your  hest,  for  service  or  array. 

Permit  I  marshal  you  the  way.' 

But,  ere  she  followed,  with  the  grace 

And  open  bounty  of  her  race, 

She  bade  her  slender  purse  be  shared 

Among  the  soldiers  of  the  guard. 

The  rest  with  thanks  their  guerdon  took, 

But  Brent,  with  shy  and  awkward  look, 

On  the  reluctant  maiden's  hold 

Forced  bluntly  back  the  proffered  gold  : 

'  Forgive  a  haughty  English  heart, 

And  O,  forget  its  ruder  part ! 

The  vacant  purse  shall  be  my  share, 

Which  in  my  barret-cap  I  '11  bear, 

Perchance,  in  jeopardy  of  war, 

Where  gayer  crests  may  keep  afar.' 


THE  LADY  OF   THE  LAKE. 


17 


With   thanks  —  't  was  all  she  could  —  the 

maid 
His  rugged  courtesy  repaid. 

XI. 

When  Ellen  forth  with  Lewis  went, 
Allan  made  suit  to  John  of  Brent :  — 
4  My  lady  safe,  0  let  your  grace 
Give  me  to  see  my  master's  face ! 
His  minstrel  I,  —  to  share  his  doom 
Bound  from  the  cradle  to  the  tomb. 
Tenth  in  descent,  since  first  my  sires 
Waked  for  his  noble  house  their  lyres, 
Nor  one  of  all  the  race  was  known 
But  prized  its  weal  above  their  own. 
With  the  Chief's  birth  begins  our  care ; 
Our  harp  must  soothe  the  infant  heir, 
Teach  the  youth  tales  of  fight,  and  grace 
His  earliest  feat  of  field  or  chase  ; 
In  peace,  in  war,  our  rank  we  keep, 
We  cheer  his  board,  we  soothe  his  sleep, 
Nor  leave  him  till  we  pour  our  verse  — 
A  doleful  tribute  !  —  o'er  his  hearse. 
Then  let  me  share  his  captive  lot ; 
It  is  my  right,  —  deny  it  not ! ' 


'  Little  we  reck,'  said  John  of  Brent, 
1  We  Southern  men,  of  long  descent ; 
Nor  wot  we  how  a  name  —  a  word  — 
Makes  clansmen  vassals  to  a  lord : 
Yet  kind  my  noble  landlord's  part,  — 
God  bless  the  house  of  Beaudesert ! 
And,  but  I  loved  to  drive  the  deer 
More  than  to  guide  the  laboring  steer, 
I  had  not  dwelt  an  outcast  here. 
Come,  good  old  Minstrel,  follow  me  ; 
Thy  Lord  and  Chieftain  shalt  thou  see.' 

XII. 

Then,  from  a  rusted  iron  hook, 
A  bunch  of  ponderous  keys  he  took, 
Lighted  a  torch,  and  Allan  led 
Through  grated  arch  and  passage  dread. 
Portals  they  passed,  where,  deep  within, 
Spoke  prisoner's  moan  and  fetters'  din  ; 
Through    rugged    vaults,    where,    loosely 

stored, 
Lay  wheel,  and  axe,  and  headsman's  sword, 
And  many  a  hideous  engine  grim, 
For  wrenching  joint  and  crushing  limb, 


238 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL    WORKS. 


By  artists  formed  who  deemed  it  shame 
And  sin  to  give  their  work  a  name. 
They  halted  at  a  low-browed  porch, 
And  Brent  to  Allan  gave  the  torch, 


While  bolt  and  chain  he  backward  rolled, 
And  made  the  bar  unhasp  its  hold. 
They  entered  :  —  't  was  a  prison-room 
Of  stern  security  and  gloom, 
Yet  not  a  dungeon  ;  for  the  day 
Through  lofty  gratings  found  its  way, 
And  rude  and  antique  garniture 
Decked  the  sad  walls  and  oaken  floor, 
Such  as  the  rugged  days  of  old 
Deemed  fit  for  captive  noble's  hold. 
'  Here,'  said  De  Brent, '  thou  mayst  remain 
Till  the  Leech  visit  him  again. 
Strict  is  his  charge,  the  warders  tell, 
To  tend  the  noble  prisoner  well.' 
Retiring  then  the  bolt  he  drew, 
And  the  lock's  murmurs  growled  anew. 
Roused  at  the  sound,  from  lowly  bed 
A  captive  feebly  raised  his  head  ; 
The  wondering  Minstrel  looked,  and  knew — 
Not  his  dear  lord,  but  Roderick  Dhu  ! 
For,  come  from  where  Clan-Alpine  fought, 
They,  erring,  deemed  the  Chief  he  sought. 


XIII. 

As  the  tall  ship,  whose  lofty  prore 

Shall  never  stem  the  billows  more, 

Deserted  by  her  gallant  band, 

Amid  the  breakers  lies  astrand,  — 

So  on  his  couch  lay  Roderick  Dhu  ! 

And  oft  his  fevered  limbs  he  threw 

In  toss  abrupt,  as  when  her  sides 

Lie  rocking  in  the  advancing  tides, 

That  shake  her  frame  with  ceaseless  beat, 


Yet  cannot  heave  her  from  her  seat ;  — 
O,  how  unlike  her  course  at  sea  ! 
Or  his  free  step  on  hill  and  lea  !  — 
Soon  as  the  Minstrel  he  could  scan,  — 
'  What  of  thy  lady  ?  —  of  my  clan  ?  — 
My  mother  ?  —  Douglas  ?  —  tell  me  all ! 
Have  they  been  ruined  in  my  fall? 
Ah,  yes  !  or  wherefore  art  thou  here  ? 
Yet  speak,  —  speak  boldly,  —  do  not  fear.' 
For  Allan,  who  his  mood  well  knew, 
Was  choked  with  grief  and  terror  too. 
•  Who  fought  ?  —  who  fled  ?  —  Old  man,  be 

brief ;  — 
Some  might,  — for  they  had  lost  their  Chief. 
Who  basely  live  ?  — who  bravely  died  ? ' 
1  O,  calm  thee,  Chief  ! '  the  Minstrel  cried, 
'  Ellen  is  safe  ! '    '  For  that  thank  Heaven  ! ' 
'  And  hopes  are  for  the  Douglas  given ;  — 
The  Lady  Margaret,  too,  is  well  ; 
And,  for  thy  clan,  —  on  field  or  fell, 
Has  never  harp  of  minstrel  told 
Of  combat  fought  so  true  and  bold. 
Thy  stately  Pine  is  yet  unbent, 
Though  many  a  goodly  bough  is  rent.' 


The  Chieftain  reared  his  form  on  high, 
And  fever's  fire  was  in  his  eye ; 
But  ghastly,  pale,  and  livid  streaks 
Checkered  his  swarthy  brow  and  cheeks. 
'  Hark,  Minstrel !   I  have  heard  thee  play, 
With  measure  bold  on  festal  day, 
In  yon  lone  isle,  —  again  where  ne'er 
Shall  harper  play  or  warrior  hear  !  — 
That  stirring  air  that  peals  on  high, 
O'er  Dermid's  race  our  victory.  — 
Strike    it  !  —  and    then,  —  for    well    thou 

canst,  — 
Free  from  thy  minstrel-spirit  glanced, 
Fling  me  the  picture  of  the  fight, 
When  met  my  clan  the  Saxon  might. 
I  '11  listen,  till  my  fancy  hears 
The  clang  of  swords,  the  crash  of  spears  ! 
These    grates,    these    walls,    shall   vanish 

then 
For  the  fair  field  of  fighting  men, 
And  my  free  spirit  burst  away, 
As  if  it  soared  from  battle  fray.' 
The  trembling  Bard  with  awe  obeyed,  — 
Slow  on  the  harp  his  hand  he  laid  ; 
But  soon  remembrance  of  the  sight 
He  witnessed  from  the  mountain's  height, 
With  what  old  Bertram  told  at  night, 
Awakened  the  full  power  of  song, 
And  bore  him  in  career  along  ;  — 
As  shallop  launched  on  river's  tide, 
That  slow  and  fearful  leaves  the  side, 
But,  when  it  feels  the  middle  stream, 
Drives  downward  swift  as  lightning's  beam. 


THE  LADY  OF   THE  LAKE. 


239 


xv 

battle  of  38caP  an  Qume. 

'  The  Minstrel  came  once  more  to  view 
The  eastern  ridge  of  Benvenue, 
For  ere  he  parted  he  would  say 
Farewell  to  lovely  Loch  Achray  — 
Where  shall  he  find;  in  foreign  land, 
So  lone  a  lake,  so  sweet  a  strand  !  — 
There  is  no  breeze  upon  the  fern, 

No  ripple  on  the  lake, 
Upon  her  eyry  nods  the  erne, 

The  deer  has  sought  the  brake; 
The  small  birds  will  not  sing  aloud, 

The  springing  trout  lies  still, 
So  darkly  glooms  yon  thunder-cloud. 
That  swathes,  as  with  a  purple  shroud, 

Benledi's  distant  hill. 
Is  it  the  thunder's  solemn  sound 
That  mutters  deep  and  dread, 
Or  echoes  from  the  groaning  ground 

The  warrior's  measured  tread  ? 
Is  it  the  lightning's  quivering  glance 

That  on  the  thicket  streams, 
Or  do  they  flash  on  spear  and  lance 
The  sun's  retiring  beams  ?  — 
I  see  the  dagger-crest  of  Mar, 
I  see  the  Moray's  silver  star, 
Wave  o'er  the  cloud  of  Saxon  war, 
That  up  the  lake  comes  winding  far  ! 
To  hero  boune  for  battle-strife, 
Or  bard  of  martial  lay, 


'T  were  worth  ten  years  of  peaceful  life, 
One  glance  at  their  array  ! 


xvi. 

1  Their  light-armed  archers  far  and  near 

Surveyed  the  tangled  ground, 
Their  centre  ranks,  with  pike  and  spear, 

A  twilight  forest  frowned, 
Their  barded  horsemen  in  the  rear 
The  stern  battalia  crowned. 
1     No  cymbal  clashed,  no  clarion  rang, 
Still  were  the  pipe  and  drum ; 
Save  heavy  tread,  and  armor's  clang, 

The  sullen  march  was  dumb. 
There  breathed  no  wind  their  crests  to 
shake, 
Or  wave  their  flags  abroad ; 
Scarce  the  frail  aspen  seemed  to  quake, 

That  shadowed  o'er  their  road. 
Their  vaward  scouts  no  tidings  bring, 

Can  rouse  no  lurking  foe, 
Nor  spy  a  trace  of  living  thing, 

Save  when  they  stirred  the  roe ; 
The  host  moves  like  a  deep-sea  wave, 
Where  rise  no  rocks  its  pride  to  brave, 
High-swelling,  dark,  and  slow. 
The  lake  is  passed,  and  now  they  gain 
A  narrow  and  a  broken  plain, 
Before  the  Trosachs'  rugged  jaws  ; 
And  here  the  horse  and  spearmen  pause, 
While,  to  explore  the  dangerous  glen, 
Dive  through  the  pass  the  archer-men. 


240 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL    WORKS. 


XVII. 

1  At  once  there  rose  so  wild  a  yell 
Within  that  dark  and  narrow  dell, 
As  all  the  fiends  from  heaven  that  fell 
Had  pealed  the  banner-cry  of  hell ! 

Forth  from  the  pass  in  tumult  driven, 
.  Like  chaff  before  the  wind  of  heaven, 
The  archery  appear : 
For  life  !  for  life  !  their  flight  they  ply 
And  shriek,  and  shout,  and  battle-cry, 
And  plaids  and  bonnets  waving  high, 
And  broadswords  flashing  to  the  sky. 

Are  maddening  in  the  rear. 
Onward  they  drive  in  dreadful  race, 
Pursuers  and  pursued  ; 


*  Bearing  before  them  in  their  course 
The  relics  of  the  archer  force, 
Like  wave  with  crest  of  sparkling  foam, 
Right  onward  did  Clan-Alpine  come. 
Above  the  tide,  each  broadsword  bright 
Was  brandishing  like  beam  of  light. 

Each  targe  was  dark  below : 
And  with  the  ocean's  mighty  swing, 
When  heaving  to  the  tempest's  wing, 
They  hurled  them  on  the  foe. 
I  heard  the  lance's  shivering  crash, 
As  when  the  whirlwind  rends  the  ash  ; 
I  heard  the  broadsword's  deadly  clang, 
As  if  a  hundred  anvils  rang  ! 


Before  that  tide  of  flight  and  chase, 
How  shall  it  keep  its  rooted  place. 

The  spearmen's  twilight  wood?  — 
"  Down,  down,"  cried  Mar,  "  your  lances 
down  ! 

Bear  back  both  friend  and  foe  !  "  — 
Like  reeds  before  the  tempests  frown, 
That  serried  grove  of  lances  brown 

At  once  lay  levelled  low  ; 
And  closely  shouldering  side  to  side, 
The  bristling  ranks  the  onset  bide.  — 
"  We  '11  quell  the  savage  mountaineer, 

As  their  Tinchel  cows  the  game ! 
They  come  as  fleet  as  forest  deer, 

We  '11  drive  them  back  as  tame." 


But  Moray  wheeled  his  rearward  rank 
Of  horsemen  on  Clan-Alpine's  flank,  — 

"  My  banner-men,  advance J 
I  see,"  he  cried,  "  their  column  shake. 
Now,  gallants  !  for  your  ladies'  sake, 

Upon  them  with  the  lance  !  "  — 
The  horsemen  dashed  among  the  rout, 

As  deer  break  through  the  broom; 
Their  steeds  are  stout,  their  swords  are 
out, 

They  soon  make  lightsome  room. 
Clan- Alpine's  best  are  backward  borne  — 

Where,  where  was  Roderick  then  ! 
One  blast  upon  his  bugle-horn 

Were  worth  a  thousand  men. 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE. 


241 


And  refluent  through  the  pass  of  fear 

The  battle's  tide  was  poured  ; 
Vanished  the  Saxon's  struggling  spear, 

Vanished  the  mountain-sword. 
As  Bracklinn's  chasm,  so  black  and  steep, 

Receives  her  roaring  linn, 
As  the  dark  caverns  of  the  deep 
Suck  the  wild  whirlpool  in, 
So  did  the  deep  and  darksome  pass 
Devour  the  battle's  mingled  mass  ; 
None  linger  now  upon  the  plain, 
Save  those  who  ne'er  shall  fight  again. 

XIX. 

4  Now  westward  rolls  the  battle's  din, 
That  deep  and  doubling  pass  within.  — 
Minstrel,  away  !  the  work  of  fate 
Is  bearing  on ;  its  issue  wait, 
Where  the  rude  Trosachs'  dread  defile 
Opens  on  Katrine's  lake  and  isle. 
Gray  Benvenue  I  soon  repassed, 
Loch  Katrine  lay  beneath  me  cast. 
The  sun  is  set ;  —  the  clouds  are  met, 
The  lowering  scowl  of  heaven 


ky 

To  the  deep  lake  has  given  ; 
Strange  gusts  of  wind  from  mountain  glen 
Swept  o'er  the  lake,  then  sunk  again. 
I  heeded  not  the  eddying  surge, 
Mine  eye  but  saw  the  Trosachs'  gorge, 
Mine  ear  but  heard  that  sullen  sound, 
Which  like  an  earthquake  shook  the  ground, 
And  spoke  the  stern  and  desperate  strife 
That  parts  not  but  with  parting  life, 
Seeming,  to  minstrel  ear,  to  toll 
The  dirge  of  many  a  passing  soul. 
Nearer  it  comes  —  the  dim-wood  glen 
The  martial  flood  disgorged  again, 

But  not  in  mingled  tide ; 
The  plaided  warriors  of  the  North 
High  on  the  mountain  thunder  forth 

And  overhang  its  side, 
While  by  the  lake  below  appears 
The  darkening  cloud  of  Saxon  spears. 
At  weary  bay  each  shattered  band, 
Eying  their  foemen;  sternly  stand; 
Their  banners  stream  like  tattered  sail, 
That  flings  its  fragments  to  the  gale, 


24: 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL    WORKS. 


And  broken  arms  and  disarray 
Marked  the  fell  havoc  of  the  day. 


'  Viewing  the  mountain's  ridge  askance, 
The  Saxons  stood  in  sullen  trance, 
Till  Moray  pointed  with  his  lance, 

'    And  cried  :  "  Behold  yon  isle  !  — 
See !  none  are  left  to  guard  its  strand 
But  women  weak,  that  wring  the  hand  : 
'T  is  there  of  yore  the  robber  band 

Their  booty  wont  to  pile  ;  — 
My  purse,  with  bonnet-pieces  store, 
To  him  will  swim  a  bow-shot  o'er, 
And  loose  a  shallop  from  the  shore. 
Lightly  we  "11  tame  the  war-^plf  then, 
Lords  of  his  mate,  and  brood,  and  den.'* 
Forth  from  the  ranks  a  spearman  sprung, 
On  earth  his  casque  and  corselet  rung, 

He  plunged  him  in  the  wave  :  — 
All  saw  the  deed,  —  the  purpose  knew. 
And  to  their  clamors  Benvenue 

A  mingled  echo  gave  ; 
The  Saxons  shout,  their  mate  to  cheer, 
The  helpless  females  scream  for  fear, 
And  yells  for  rage  the  mountaineer. 
'T  was  then,  as  by  the  outcry  riven, 
Poured  down  at  once  the  lowering  heaven 
A  whirlwind  swept  Loch  Katrine's  breast, 
Her  billows  reared  their  snowy  crest. 
Well  for  the  swimmer  swelled  they  high, 


To  mar  the  Highland  marksman's  eye  ; 

For  round  him  showered,  mid  rain  and  hail. 

The  vengeful  arrows  of  the  Gael. 

In  vain.  —  He  nears  the  isle  —  and  lo  ! 

His  hand  is  on  a  shallop's  bow. 

Just  then  a  flash  of  lightning  came, 

It  tinged  the  waves  and  strand  with  flame  : 

I  marked  Duncraggan's  widowed  dame, 

Behind  an  oak  I  saw  her  stand, 

A  naked  dirk  gleamed  in  her  hand  :  — 

It  darkened,  —  but  amid  the  moan 

Of  waves  I  heard  a  dying  groan ;  — 

Another  flash  !  —  the  spearman  floats 

A  weltering  corse  beside  the  boats, 

And  the  stern  matron  o'er  him  stood. 

Her  hand  and  dagger  streaming  blood. 

XXI. 

'  "  Revenge  !  revenge  !  "  the  Saxons  cried, 

The  Gaels'  exulting  shout  replied. 

Despite  the  elemental  rage, 

Again  they  hurried  to  engage  ; 

But,  ere  they  closed  in  desperate  fight, 

Bloody  with  spurring  came  a  knight, 

Sprung  from  his  horse,  and  from  a  crag 

Waved  'twixt  the  hosts  a  milk-white  flag. 

Clarion  and  trumpet  by  his  side 

Rung  forth  a  truce-note  high  and  wide. 

While,  in  the  Monarch's  name,  afar 

A  herald's  voice  forbade  the  war, 

For  Both  well's  lord  and  Roderick  bold 


THE  LADY  OF   THE  LAKE. 


243 


Were  both,  he  said,  in  captive  hold.'  — 
But  here  the  lay  made  sudden  stand, 
The  harp  escaped  the  Minstrel's  hand ! 
Oft  had  he  stolen  a  glance,  to  spy 
How  Roderick  brooked  his  minstrelsy  : 
At  first,  the  Chieftain,  to  the  chime, 
With  lifted  hand  kept  feeble  time  ; 
That  motion  ceased,  —  yet  feeling  strong 
Varied  his  look  as  changed  the  song ; 
At  length,  no  more  his  deafened  ear 
The  minstrel  melody  can  hear ; 
His   face    grows    sharp,  —  his    hands   are 

clenched, 
As  if  some  pang  his  heart-strings  wrenched ; 
Set  are  his  teeth,  his  fading  eye 
Is  sternly  fixed  on  vacancy; 
Thus,  motionless  and  moanless,  drew 
His  parting  breath  stout  Roderick  Dhu  !  — 
Old  Allan-bane  looked  on  aghast, 
While  grim  and  still  his  spirit  passed ; 
But  when  he  saw  that  life  was  fled, 
He  poured  his  wailing  o'er  the  dead. 

XXII. 

Uament. 

'  And  art  thou  cold  and  lowly  laid, 
Thy  foeman's  dread,  thy  people's  aid, 
Breadalbane's  boast,  Clan-Alpine's  shade  ! 
For  thee  shall  none  a  requiem  say?  — 


For  thee,  who  loved  the  minstrel's  lay. 
For  thee,  of  Bothwell's  house  the  stay, 
The  shelter  of  her  exiled  line, 
E'en  in  this  prison-house  of  thine, 
I  '11  wail  for  Alpine's  honored  Pine  ! 

'  What  groans  shall  yonder  valleys  fill ! 
What  shrieks  of  grief  shall  rend  yon  hill ! 
What  tears  of  burning  rage  shall  thrill, 
When  mourns  thy  tribe  thy  battles  done, 
Thy  fall  before  the  race  was  won, 
Thy  sword  ungirt  ere  set  of  sun  ! 
There  breathes  not  clansman  of  thy  line, 
But  would  have  given  his  life  for  thine. 
O,  woe  for  Alpine's  honored  Pine  ! 

'  Sad  was  thy  lot  on  mortal  stage  !  — 
The  captive  thrush  may  brook  the  cage, 
The  prisoned  eagle  dies  for  rage. 
Brave  spirit,  do  not  scorn  my  strain  ! 
And,  when  its  notes  awake  again, 
Even  she,  so  long  beloved  in  vain, 
Shall  with  my  harp  her  voice  combine, 
And  mix  her  woe  and  tears  with  mine, 
To  wail  Clan- Alpine's  honored.  Pine.' 


Ellen  the  while,  with  bursting  heart, 

Remained  in  lordly  bower  apart, 

Where  played,  with  many-colored  gleams, 


244 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL    WORKS. 


And  lightened  up  a  tapestried  wall, 
And  for  her  use  a  menial  train 
A  rich  collation  spread  in  vain. 
The  banquet  proud,  the  chamber  gay, 
Scarce  drew  one  curious  glance  astray; 
Or  if  she  looked,  't  was  but  to  say, 
With  better  omen  dawned  the  day 
In  that  lone  isle,  where  waved  on  high 
The  dun-deer's  hide  for  canopy  ; 
Where  oft  her  noble  father  shared 
The  simple  meal  her  care  prepared, 
While  Lufra,  crouching  by  her  side, 
Her  station  claimed  with  jealous  pride, 
And  Douglas,  bent  on  woodland  game, 
Spoke  of  the  chase  to  Malcolm  Graeme, 
Whose  answer,  oft  at  random  made, 
The  wandering  of  his  thoughts  betrayed. 
Those  who  such  simple  joys  have  known 
Are  taught  to  prize  them  when  they  're  gone. 


Through  storied  pane  the  rising  beams. 
In  vain  on  gilded  roof  they  fall, 


But  sudden,  see,  she  lifts  her  head, 
The  window  seeks  with  cautious  tread. 
What  distant  music  has  the  power 
To  win  her  in  this  woful  hour  ? 
'T  was  from  a  turret  that  o'erhung 
Her  latticed  bower,  the  strain  was  sung. 


xxiv.    „ 

2Las  of  tlje  Emprisoneo  huntsman. 

'  My  hawk  is  tired  of  perch  and  hood, 
My  idle  greyhound  loathes  his  food, 
My  horse  is  weary  of  his  stall, 
And  I  am  sick  of  captive  thrall. 
I  wish  I  were  as  I  have  been, 
Hunting  the  hart  in  forest  green, 
With  bended  bow  and  bloodhound  free, 
For  that 's  the  life  is  meet  for  me. 


THE  LADY  OF   THE  LAKE. 


245 


*  I  hate  to  learn  the  ebb  of  time 
From  yon  dull  steeple's  drowsy  chime, 
Or  mark  it  as  the  sunbeams  crawl, 
Inch  after  inch,  along  the  wall. 
The  lark  was  wont  my  matins  ring, 
The  sable  rook  my  vespers  sing, 
These  towers,  although  a  king's  they  be, 
Have  not  a  hall  of  joy  for  me. 

x  No  more  at  dawning  morn  I  rise, 
And  sun  myself  in  Ellen's  eyes, 
Drive  the  fleet  deer  the  forest  through, 
And  homeward  wend  with  evening  dew  ; 
A  blithesome  welcome  blithely  meet, 
And  lay  my  trophies  at  her  feet, 
While  fled  the  eve  on  wing  of  glee,  — 
That  life  is  lost  to  love  and  me  ! ' 


xxv. 

The  heart-sick  lay  was  hardly  said, 
The  listener  had  not  turned  her  head, 
It  trickled  still,  the  starting  tear, 
When  light  a  footstep  struck  her  ear, 
And  Snowdoun's  graceful  Knight  was  near. 
She  turned  the  hastier,  lest  again 
The  prisoner  should  renew  his  strain. 
'  O  welcome,  brave  Fitz-James  ! '  she  said  ; 
'  How  may  an  almost  orphan  maid 
Pay  the  deep  debt  —  '     '  O  say  not  so  ! 
To  me  no  gratitude  you  owe. 
Not  mine,  alas  !  'the  boon  to  give. 


And  bid  thy  noble  father  live  ; 

I  can  but  be  thy  guide,  sweet  maid, 

With  Scotland's  King  thy  suit  to  aid. 

No  tyrant  he,  though  ire  and  pride 

May  lay  his  better  mood  aside. 

Come,  Ellen,  come  !  't  is  more  than  time, 

He  holds  his  court  at  morning  prime.' 

With  beating  heart,  and  bosom  wrung, 

As  to  a  brother's  arm  she  clung. 

Gently  he  dried  the  falling  tear, 

And  gently  whispered  hope  and  cheer  ; 

Her  faltering  steps  half  led,  half  stayed, 

Through  gallery  fair  and  high  arcade, 

Till  at  his  touch  its  wings  of  pride 

A  portal  arch  unfolded  wide. 


xxvi. 

Within  't  was  brilliant  all  and  light, 
A  thronging  scene  of  figures  bright ; 
It  glowed  on  Ellen's  dazzled  sight, 
As  when  the  setting  sun  has  given 
Ten  thousand  hues  to  summer  even, 
And  from  their  tissue  fancy  frames 
Aerial  knights  and  fairy  dames. 
Still  by  Fitz-James  her  footing  staid  ; 
A  few  faint  steps  she  forward  made, 
Then  slow  her  drooping  head  she  raised, 
And  fearful  round  the  presence  gazed ; 
For  him  she  sought  who  owned  this  state, 
The  dreaded  Prince  whose  will  was  fate  !  — 
She  gazed  on  many  a  princely  port 


246 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL    WORKS. 


Might  well  have  ruled  a  royal  court ; 
On  many  a  splendid  garb  she  gazed,  — 
Then  turned  bewildered  and  amazed, 
For  all  stood  bare ;  and  in  the  room 
Fitz-James  alone  wore  cap  and  plume. 
To  him  each  lady's  look  was  lent, 
On  him  each  courtier's  eye  was  bent ; 
Midst  furs  and  silks  and  jewels  sheen, 
He  stood,  in  simple  Lincoln  green, 


The  fealty  of  Scotland  claims. 

To  him  thy  woes,  thy  wishes,  bring ; 

He  will  redeem  his  signet  ring. 

Ask  naught  for  Douglas  ;  —  yester  even, 

His  Prince  and  he  have  much  forgiven; 

Wrong  hath  he  had  from  slanderous  tongue, 

I,  from  his  rebel  kinsmen,  wrong. 

We  would  not,  to  the  vulgar  crowd, 

Yield  what  they  craved  with  clamor  loud ; 


The  centre  of  the  glittering  ring,  — 

And  Snowdoun's  Knight  is  Scotland's  King  ! 

XXVII. 

As  wreath  of  snow  on  mountain-breast 

Slides  from  the  rock  that  gave  it  rest, 

Poor  Ellen  glided  from  her  stay, 

And  at  the  Monarch's  feet  she  lay  ; 

No  word  her  choking  voice  commands,  — 

She   showed   the   ring,  —  she   clasped  her 

.hands. 
O,  not  a  moment  could  he  brook, 
The  generous  Prince,  that  suppliant  look ! 
Gently  he  raised  her,  — and,  the  while, 
Checked  with  a  glance  the  circle's  smile  ; 
Graceful,  but  grave,  her  brow  he  kissed, 
And  bade  her  terrors  be  dismissed  :  — 
'Yes,  fair;  the  wandering  poor  Fitz-James 


Calmly  we  heard  and  judged  his  cause. 
Our  council  aided  and  our  laws. 
I  stanched  thy  father's  death-feud  stern 
With  stout  De  Vaux  and  gray  Glencairn  ; 
And  Both  well's  Lord  henceforth  we  own 
The  friend  and  bulwark  of  our  throne.  — 
But,  lovely  infidel,  how  now  ? 
What  clouds  thy  misbelieving  brow  ? 
Lord  James  of  Douglas,  lend  thine  aid  ; 
Thou  must  confirm  this  doubting  maid.' 

XXVIII. 

Then  forth  the  noble  Douglas  sprung, 
And  on  his  neck  his  daughter  hung. 
The  Monarch  drank,  that  happy  hour, 
The  sweetest,  holiest  draught  of  Power,  — 
When  it  can  say  with  godlike  voice, 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE. 


247 


Arise,  sad  Virtue,  and  rejoice  ! 

Yet  would  not  James  the  general  eye 

On  nature's  raptures  long  should  pry : 

He    stepped    between  —  '  Nay,    Douglas, 

nay, 
Steal  not  my  proselyte  away ! 
The  riddle  'tis  my  right  to  read, 
That  brought  this  happy  chance  to  speed. 
Yes,  Ellen,  when  disguised  I  stray 
In  life's  more  low  but  happier  way, 
"T  is  under  name  which  veils  my  power. 
Nor  falsely  veils,  — for  Stirling's  tower 
Of  yore  the  name  of  Snowdoun  claims, 
And  Normans  call  me  James  Fitz-James. 
Thus  watch  I  o'er  insulted  laws, 
Thus  learn  to  right  the  injured  cause.' 
Then,  in  a  tone  apart  and  low,  — 
'■  Ah,  little  traitress  !  none  must  know 
What  idle  dream,  what  lighter  thought, 
What  vanity  full  dearly  bought, 
Joined  to  thine  eye's  dark  witchcraft,  drew 
My  spell-bound  steps  to  Benvenue 
In  dangerous  hour,  and  all  but  gave 
Thy  Monarch's  life  to  mountain  glaive  ! ' 
Aloud  he  spoke :  '  Thou  still  dost  hold 
That  little  talisman  of  srold, 


Pledge  of  my  faith,  Fitz-James's  ring,  — 
What  seeks  fair  Ellen  of  the  King  ? ' 


XXIX. 

Full  well  the  conscious  maiden  guessed 
He  probed  the  weakness  of  her  breast ; 
But  with  that  consciousness  there  came 
A  lightening  of  her  fears  for  Graeme, 
And  more  she  deemed  the  Monarch's  ire 
Kindled  'gainst  him  who  for  her  sire 
Rebellious  broadsword  boldly  drew  ; 
And,  to  her  generous  feeling  true, 
She  craved  the  grace  of  Roderick  Dhu. 
'  Forbear  thy  suit ; —  the  King  of  kings 
Alone  can  stay  life's  parting  wings. 
I  know  his  heart,  I  know  his  hand, 
Have   shared   his  cheer,  and    proved   his 

brand  ;  — 
My  fairest  earldom  would  I  give 
To  bid  Clan-Alpine's  Chieftain  live  !  — 
Hast  thou  no  other  boon  to  crave  ? 
No  other  captive  friend  to  save  ? ' 
Blushing,  she  turned  her  from  the  King, 
And  to  the  Douglas  gave  the  ring, 
As  if  she  wished  her  sire  to  speak 


248 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL   WORKS. 


The  suit  that  stained  her  glowing  cheek. 
4  Nay,  then,  my  pledge  has  lost  its  force, 
And  stubborn  justice  holds  her  course. 
Malcolm,  come  forth  ! '  —  and,  at  the  word, 
Down   kneeled  the  Graeme   to   Scotland's 

Lord. 
1  For  thee,  rash  youth,  no  suppliant  sues, 
From  thee  may  Vengeance  claim  her  dues, 
Who,  nurtured  underneath  our  smile, 


Hast  paid  our  care  by  treacherous  wile. 
And  sought  amid  thy  faithful  clan 
A  refuge  for  an  outlawed  man, 
Dishonoring  thus  thy  loyal  name.— 
Fetters  and  warder  for  the  Graeme  ! ' 
His  chain  of  gold  the  King  unstrung. 
The  links  o'er  Malcolm's  neck  he  flung, 
Then  gently  drew  the  glittering  band. 
And  laid  the  clasp  on  Ellen's  hand. 


THE  LADY  OF   THE  LAKE. 


249 


Harp  of  the  North,  farewell !      The  hills  grow  dark, 

On  purple  peaks  a  deeper  shade  descending; 
.  In  twilight  copse  the  glow-worm  lights  her  spark,- 

The  deer,  half-seen,  are  to  the  covert  wending. 
Resume  thy  wizard  elm !   the  fountain  lending, 

And  the  wild   breeze,  thy  wilder  minstrelsy; 
Thy  numbers  sweet  with  nature's  vespers  blending, 

With  distant  echo  from  the  fold  and  lea, 
And  herd-boy's  evening  pipe,  and  hum  of  housing  bee. 

Yet,  once  again,  farewell,  thou  Minstrel  Harp ! 

Yet,  once  again,   forgive  my  feeble  sway, 
And  little  reck   I   of  the  censure  sharp 

May  idly  cavil  at  an  idle  lay. 
Much  have   I  owed   thy  strains  on  life's  long  way, 

Through   secret  woes   the  world  has  never  known, 
When  on  the  weary  night  dawned  wearier  day, 

And  bitterer  was  the  grief  devoured  alone.  — 
That  I  o'erlive  such   woes,   Enchantress !   is  thine  own. 


Hark !  as  my  lingering  footsteps  slow  retire, 

Some  Spirit  of  the  Air  has  waked  thy  string ! 
'T  is  now  a  seraph  bold,  with  touch  of  fire, 

'Tis  now  the  brush  of  Fairy's  frolic  wing. 
Receding  now,  the  dying  numbers  ring 

Fainter  and  fainter  down  the  rugged  dell; 
And  now  the  mountain  breezes  scarcely  bring 

A  wandering  witch-note  of  the  distant  spell  — 
And  now,  't  is  silent  all  !  —  Enchantress,  fare  thee  well ! 


Cfje  fusion  elf  Bon  &otjerun. 


Quid  dignum  memorare  tuts,  Hispania,  terris, 
Vox  humana  valet!  —  Claudian. 


JOHN    WHITMORE,    ESQ., 

AND  TO  THE 

COMMITTEE   OF  SUBSCRIBERS   FOR   RELIEF  OF  THE   PORTUGUESE  SUFFERERS, 

IN    WHICH    HE   PRESIDES, 

THIS    POEM, 

THE  VISION  OF  DON   RODERICK, 

COMPOSED   FOR   THE   BENEFIT   OF  THE  FUND   UNDER   THEIR   MANAGEMENT, 

IS   RESPECTFULLY   INSCRIBED   BY 

"     ,  WALTER   SCOTT. 


&fje  Virion  of  ©oit  EotJertcn. 
INTRODUCTION. 


Lives  there   a  strain   whose   sounds  of 
mounting  fire 
May  rise  distinguished  o'er  the  din  of 
war; 
Or  died  it  with  yon  Master  of  the  Lyre, 

Who  sung  beleaguered  Ilion's  evil  star? 
Such,   Wellington,   might  reach  thee 
from  afar, 
Wafting  its  descant  wide  o'er  Ocean's 
range  ; 
Nor  shouts,  nor  clashing  arms,  its  mood 
could  mar, 
All  as  it  swelled  'twixt  each  loud  trum- 
pet-change, 
That  clangs  to  Britain  victory,  to  Portugal 
revenge  ! 


Yes  !  such  a  strain,  with  all  o'er-powering 
measure, 
Might  melodize  with  each  tumultuous 
sound, 


Each  voice  of  fear  or  triumph,  woe  or 
pleasure, 
That  rings  Mondego's  ravaged  shores 
around ;     • 
The  thundering  cry  of  hosts  with  con- 
quest crowned, 
The  female  shriek,  the  ruined  peasant's 
moan, 
The  shout  of  captives  from  their  chains 
unbound, 
The  foiled  oppressor's  deep  and  sullen 
groan, 
A  Nation's  choral  hymn  for  tyranny  o'er- 
thrown. 


But  we,  weak  minstrels  of  a  laggard  day, 

Skilled  but  to  imitate  an  elder  page, 
Timid  and  raptureless,  can  we  repay 
The  debt  thou  claim'st  in  this  exhausted 
age? 
Thou  givest  our  lyres  a  theme,  that  might 
engage 
Those  that  could  send  thy  name  o'er 
sea  and  land. 
While  sea  and  land  shall  last;  for  Ho- 
mer's ragre 


254 


SCOTT S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


A  theme ;  a  theme  for  Milton's  mighty 
hand  — 
How  much  unmeet  for  us,  a  faint  degener- 
ate band  ! 


Ye  mountains  stern  !  within  whose  rugged 
breast 
The  friends  of  Scottish  freedom  found 
repose ; 
Ye  torrents  !  whose  hoarse  sounds  have 
soothed  their  rest, 
Returning  from  the  field  of  vanquished 
foes; 
Say,  have  ye  lost  each  wild  majestic  close, 
That  erst  the  choir  of  Bards  or  Druids 
flung ; 
What  time  their  hymn  of  victory  arose, 
And  Cattraeth's   glens   with  voice  of 
triumph  rung, 
And  mystic  Merlin  harped,  and  gray-haired 
Llywarch  sung? 


O,  if  your  wilds  such  minstrelsy  retain, 
As  sure  your  changeful  gales  seem  oft 
to  say, 
When  sweeping  wild  and   sinking   soft 
again, 
Like    trumpet-jubilee    or  harp's    wild 
sway ; 
If  ye  can  echo  such  triumphant  lay, 
Then  lend  the  note  to  him  has  loved 
you  long ! 
Who  pious  gathered  each  tradition  gray, 
That  floats  your  solitary  wastes  along, 
And   with  affection  vain  gave  them  new 
voice  in  song. 

VI. 

For  not  till  now,  how  oft  soe'er  the  task 
Of  truant  verse  hath  lightened  graver 
care, 
From  Muse  or  Sylvan  was  he  wont  to  ask, 

In  phrase  poetic,  inspiration  fair; 
Careless  he  gave  his  numbers  to  the  air, 
They  came  unsought  for,  if  applauses 
came  ; 
Nor  for  himself  prefers  he  now  the  prayer : 
Let  but  his  verse  befit  a  hero's  fame, 
Immortal  be  the  verse  !  —  forgot  the  poet's 
name  ! 

VII. 

Hark,  from  yon  misty  cairn  their  answer 

tost: 

1  Minstrel !  the  fame  of  whose  romantic 

lyre, 

Capricious-swelling  now,  may  soon  be  lost, 

Like  the  light  flickering  of  a  cottage  fire  ; 


If  to  such  task  presumptuous  thou  aspire 
Seek  not  from  us  the  meed  to  warrior 
•         due: 
Age  after  age  has  gathered  son  to  sire. 
Since  our  gray  cliffs  the  din  of  conflict 
knew, 
Or,  pealing  through  our  vales,  victorious 
bugles  blew. 

VIII. 

'  Decayed  our  old  traditionary  lore, 
Save  where  the  lingering  fays  renew 
their  ring, 
By  milkmaid  seen  beneath  the  hawthorn 
hoar, 
Or  round  the  marge   of  Minchmore's 
haunted  spring; 
Save    where    their  legends   gray-haired 
shepherds  sing, 
That  now  scarce  win  a  listening  ear 
but  thine, 
Of  feuds  obscure  and  Border  ravaging, 
And  rugged  deeds  recount  in  rugged 
line 
Of  moonlight  foray  made  on  Teviot,  Tweed, 
or  Tyne. 

IX. 

'  No !  search  romantic  lands,  where  the 
near  Sun 
Gives   with    unstinted    boon   ethereal 
flame, 
Where  the  rude  villager,  his  labor  done, 
In  verse  spontaneous  chants  some  fa- 
vored name, 
Whether  Olalia's  charms  his  tribute  claim, 
Her  eye  of  diamond  and  her  locks  of  jet, 
Or  whether,   kindling  at  the   deeds   of 
Graeme, 
He  sing,  to  wild  Morisco  measure  set, 
Old  Albin's    red  claymore,   green    Erin's 
bayonet ! 


'  Explore  those  regions,  where  the  flinty 
crest 
Of  wild  Nevada  ever  gleams  with  snows, 
Where  in  the  proud  Alhambra's  ruined 
breast 
Barbaric  monuments  of  pomp  repose  ; 
Or  where  the  banners  of  more  ruthless  foes 
Than  the  fierce  Moor  float  o'er  Toledo's 
fane, 
From  whose  tall  towers  even  now  the 
patriot  throws 
An  anxious  glance,   to  spy  upon  the 
plain 
The  blended  ranks  of  England,  Portugal, 
and  Spain. 


THE    VISION  OF  DON  RODERICK. 


255 


XI. 

•  There,    of    Numantian    fire   a   swarthy 

spark 
Still  lightens  in  the  sunburnt  native's 
eye; 
The  stately  port,  slow  step,  and  visage 
dark 
Still   mark   enduring   pride    and   con- 
stancy. 
And,  if  the  glow  of  feudal  chivalry 

Beam  not,  as  once,  thy  nobles'  dearest 
pride, 
Iberia  !  oft  thy  crestless  peasantry 

Have   seen  the  plumed   Hidalgo  quit 
their  side, 
Have  seen,  yet  dauntless  stood  —  'gainst 
fortune  fought  and  died. 

XII. 

*  And  cherished  still  by  that  unchanging 

race, 
Are  themes  for  minstrelsy  more  high 
than  thine  ; 
Of  strange  tradition  many  a  mystic  trace, 
Legend  and  vision,  prophecy  and  sign  ; 
Where  wonders  wild  of  Arabesque  com- 
bine 
With  Gothic  imagery  of  darker  shade, 
Forming  a  model  meet  for  minstrel  line. 
Go,  seek  such  theme  ! '  —  The  Moun- 
tain Spirit  said : 
With   filial  awe  I  heard  —  I  heard,  and  I 
obeyed. 


&jje  Utgiott  at  ©on  Hfcotoeritft. 


Rearing  their  crests  amid  the  cloudless 
skies, 
And  darkly  clustering  in  the  pale  moon- 
light, 
Toledo's  holy  towers  and  spires  arise, 

As  from  a  trembling  lake  of  silver  white. 
Their  mingled  shadows  intercept  the  sight 
Of  the  broad  burial-ground  outstretched 
below, 
And  naught  disturbs  the  silence  of  the 
night ; 
All  sleeps  in  sullen  shade,  or  silver  glow, 
All  save  the  heavy  swell  of  Teio's  ceaseless 
flow. 

11. 

All  save  the  rushing  swell  of  Teio's  tide, 
Or,  distant  heard,  a  courser's  neigh  or 
tramp, 


Their  changing  rounds  as  watchful  horse- 
men ride, 
To  guard  the  limits  of  King  Roderick's 
camp. 
For,  through  the  river's  night-fog  rolling 
damp, 
Was  many  a  proud  pavilion  dimly  seen, 
Which  glimmered  back,  against  the  moon's 
fair  lamp, 
Tissues  of  silk  and  silver  twisted  sheen, 
And  standards  proudly  pitched,  and  warders 
armed  between. 


in. 

But  of  their  monarch's  person  keeping 
ward, 
Since   last  the   deep-mouthed  bell  of 
vespers  tolled, 
The  chosen  soldiers  of  the  royal  guard 
The  post  beneath  the  proud  cathedral 
hold: 
A  band  unlike  their  Gothic  sires  of  old, 

Who,  for  the  cap  of  steel  and  iron  mace, 
Bear  slender  darts  and  casques  bedecked 
with  gold, 
While  silver-studded  belts  their  shoul- 
ders grace, 
Where  ivory  quivers  ring  in  the  broad  fal- 
chion's place. 


IV. 

In  the  light  language  of  an  idle  court, 
They  murmured  at  their  master's  long 
delay, 
And  held  his  lengthened  orisons  in  sport : 
1  What !    will  Don  Roderick  here  till 
morning  stay, 
To  wear  in  shrift  and  prayer  the  night 
away? 
And  are  his  hours  in  such  dull  penance 
past, 
For  fair  Florinda's  plundered  charms  to 
pay?' 
Then  to  the  east  their  weary  eyes  they 
cast, 
And  wished  the  lingering  dawn  would  glim- 
mer forth  at  last. 


v. 

But,  far  within,  Toledo's  prelate  lent 
An  ear  of  fearful  wonder  to  the  king ; 

The  silver  lamp  a  fitful  lustre  sent, 
So  long  that  sad  confession  witnessing : 

For  Roderick  told  of  many  a  hidden  thing, 
Such  as  are  lothly  uttered  to  the  air, 

When  Fear,  Remorse,  and   Shame  the 


256 


SCOTT S  POETICAL    WORKS. 


And   Guilt  his   secret  burden*  cannot 
bear, 
And  Conscience  seeks  in  speech  a  respite 
from  Despair. 


Full  on  the  prelate's  face  and  silver  hair 
The  stream  of  failing  light  was  feebly 
rolled ; 
But  Roderick's  visage,  though  his  head 
was  bare, 
Was  shadowed  by  his  hand  and  mantle's 
fold. 
While  of  his  hidden  soul  the  sins  he  told, 
Proud   Alaric's  descendant  could  not 
brook 
That    mortal    man    his    bearing    should 
behold, 
Or  boast  that  he  had  seen,  when  con- 
science shook, 
Fear  tame  a  monarch's   brow,  remorse  a 
warrior's  look. 


The   old  man's  faded  cheek   waxed  yet 
more  pale, 
As  many  a  secret  sad  the  king  bewrayed; 
As  sign  and  glance  eked  out  the  unfin- 
ished tale, 
When  in  the  midst  his  faltering  whisper 
staid.  — 
1  Thus  royal  Witiza  was  slain,'  he  said ; 
4  Yet,  holy  father,  deem  not  it  was  I.' 
Thus  still  Ambition  strives  her  crimes 
to  shade.  — 
'  O,  rather  deem  't  was  stern  necessity ! 
Self-preservation  bade,  and  I  must  kill  or 
die. 

VIII. 

1  And  if  Florinda's  shrieks  alarmed  the  air, 

If  she  invoked  her  absent  sire  in  vain 
And  on  her  knees  implored  that  I  would 
spare, 
Yet,  reverend  priest,  thy  sentence  rash 
refrain  ! 
All  is  not  as  it  seems  —  the  female  train 
Know  by  their  bearing  to  disguise  their 
mood  :  '  — 
But  Conscience  here,  as  if  in  high  disdain, 
Sent  to  the  Monarch's  cheek  the  burn 
ing  blood  — 
He  stayed  his  speech  abrupt  —  and  up  the 
prelate  stood. 


IX. 

1  O  hardened  offspring  of  an  iron  race ! 
What  of  thy  crimes,   Don  Roderick, 
shall  I  say? 


What  alms  or  prayers  or  penance  can 
efface 
Murder's    dark    spot,   wash    treason's 
stain  away ! 
For  the  foul  ravish er  how  shall  I  pray, 
Who,  scarce  repentant,  makes  his  crime 
his  boast  ? 
How    hope    Almighty    vengeance    shall 
delay, 
Unless,  in  mercy  to  yon  Christian  host, 
He  spare  the  shepherd  lest  the  guiltless 
sheep  be  lost.' 


Then  kindled  the  dark  tyrant  in  his  mood, 
Apd  to  his  brow  returned  its  dauntless 
gloom ; 
'  And  welcome  then,'  he  cried,  'be  blood 
for  blood, 
For   treason    treachery,   for   dishonor 
doom ! 
Yet  will  I  know  whence  come  they  or  by 
whom. 
Show,  for  thou  canst  —  give  forth  the 
fated  key, 
And  guide  me,  priest,  to  that  mysterious 
room 
Where,  if  aught  true  in  old  traditionbe, 
His  nation's  future  fates  a  Spanish  king 
shall  see.' 

XI. 

'  Ill-fated   Prince !    recall  the   desperate 
word, 
Or  pause  ere  yet  the  omen  thou  obey  ! 
Bethink,   yon   spell-bound  portal  would 
afford 
Never  to  former  monarch  entrance-way ; 
Nor  shall  it  ever  ope,  old  records  say, 

Save  to  a  king,  the  last  of  all  his  line, 
What  time  his  empire  totters  to  decay, 
And  treasondigs  beneath  herfatalmine, 
And  high  above  impends   avenging  wrath 
divine.'  — 


'  Prelate !    a  monarch's  fate   brooks   no 
delay ; 
Lead  on!'  —  The  ponderous  key  the 
old  man  took, 
And  held  the  winking  lamp,  and  led  the 
way, 
By  winding  stair,  dark  aisle,  and  secret 
nook, 
Then  on  an  ancient  gateway  bent  his  look ; 
And,  as  the   key  the  desperate   king 
essayed, 
Low    muttered    thunders    the   cathedral 
shook, 


THE    VISION  OF  DON  RODERICK. 


257 


And  twice  he  stopped  and  twice  new 
effort  made, 
Till  the  huge  bolts  rolled  back  and  the  loud 
hinges  brayed. 

XIII. 

Long,  large,  and  lofty  was  that  vaulted 
hall; 
Roof,  walls,  and  floor  were  all  of  mar- 
ble stone, 
Of  polished  marble,  black  as  funeral  pall, 
Carved  o'er  with  signs  and  characters 
unknown. 
A  paly  light,  a^s  of  the  dawning,  shone 
Through  the  sad  bounds,  but  whence 
they  could  not  spy, 
For  window  to  the  upper  air  was  none: 
Yet  by  that  light  Don  Roderick  could 
descry 
Wonders  that  ne'er  till  then  were  seen  by 
mortal  eye. 

XIV. 

Grim  sentinels,  against  the  upper  wall, 
Of   molten  bronze,   two   Statues  held 
their  place ; 
Massive  their  naked  limbs,  their  stature 
tall,      , 
Their  frowning  foreheads  golden  circles 
grace. 
Moulded  they  seemed  for  kings  of  giant 


That  lived  and  sinned  before  the  aveng- 
ing flood ; 
This  grasped  a  scythe,  that  rested  on  a 
mace  ; 
This  spread  his  wings  for  flight,  that 
pondering  stood, 
Each  stubborn  seemed  and  stern,  immutable 
of  mood.        .  • 


Fixed  was  the  right-hand  giant's  brazen 
look 
Upon  his  brother's  glass  of   shifting 
sand, 
As  if  its  ebb  he  measured  by  a  book, 
Whose  iron  volume  loaded  his  huge 
hand; 
In  which  was  wrote  of  many  a  fallen  land, 
Of  empires   lost,  and   kings   to  exile 
driven : 
And  o'er  that  pair  their  names  in  scroll 
expand  — 
'  Lo,   Destiny  and  Time  !    to  whom 
by  Heaven 
The  guidance  of  the  earth  is  for  a  season 
given.'  — 

xv  1. 

Even  while    they   read,   the   sand-glass 
wastes  away  ; 
And,  as  the  last  and  lagging  grains  did 
creep, 


58 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL    WORKS. 


That  right  hand  giant  'gan  his  club  up- 
sway, 
As  one  that  startles  from  a  heavy  sleep. 
Full  on  the  upper  wall  the  mace's  sweep 
At  once  descended  with  the  force  of 
thunder, 
And,  hurtling  down  at  once  in  crumbled 
heap, 
The  marble  boundary  was  rent  asunder, 
And  gave  to  Roderick's  view  new  sights  of 
fear  and  wonder. 

XVII. 

For  they  might  spy  beyond  that  mighty 
breach 
Realms  as  of  Spain  in  visioned  pros 
pect  laid, 
Castles  and  towers,   in   due  proportion 
each, 
As  by  some  skilful  artist's  hand  por- 
trayed : 
Here,  crossed  by  many  a  wild  Sierra's 
shade 
And    boundless   plains   that    tire  the 
traveller's  eye; 
There,  rich  with  vineyard  and  with  olive 
glade, 
Or  deep-embrowned   by  forests  huge 
and  high, 
Or  washed  by  mighty  streams  that  slowly 
murmured  by. 

XVIII. 

And  here,  as  erst  upon  the  antique  stage 
Passed  forth   the   band  of  masquers 
trimly  led, 
In  various  forms  and  various  equipage, 
While  fitting  strains  the  hearer's  fancy 
fed; 
So,  to  sad  Roderick's  eye  in  order  spread, 
Successive  pageants  filled  that  mystic 
scene, 
Showing  the  fate  of  battles  ere  they  bled, 
And  issue  of  events  that  had  not  been ; 
And  ever  and  anon  strange  sounds  were 
heard  between. 

XIX. 

First     shrilled    an     unrepeated    female 
shriek  !  — 
It  seemed  as  if  Don  Roderick  knew  the 
call, 
For  the  bold  blood  was  blanching  in  his 
cheek. — 
Then  answered  kettle-drum  and  atabal, 
Gong-peal  and  cymbal-clank  the  ear  ap- 
pall, 
The    Tecbir  war-cry  and   the    Lelie's 
yell 


Ring  wildly  dissonant  along  the  hall. 
Needs  not  to  Roderick  their  dread  im- 
port tell —  , 
\  '  The  Moor  ! '  he  cried,  '  the  Moor  !  —  ring 
out  the  tocsin  bell ! 


'  They   come  !    they  come  !    I    see   the 
groaning  lands 
White  with  the  turbans  of  each  Arab 
horde ; 
Swart    Zaarah    joins    her    misbelieving 
bands, 
Alia  and  Mahomet  their  battle-word, 
The  choice  they  yield,  the  Koran  or  the 
sword.  — 
See  how  the  Christians  rush  to  arms 
amain !  — 
In   yonder  shout   the  voice   of  conflict 
roared, 
The  shadowy  hosts  are  closing  on  the 
plain  — 
Now,  God  and  Saint  Iago  strike  for  the 
good  cause  of  Spain! 

XXI. 

'  By   Heaven,   the    Moors   prevail !    the 
Christians  yield ! 
Their  coward  leader  gives  for  flight 
the  sign  ! 
The  sceptred  craven  mounts  to  quit  the 
field  — 
Is  not  yon  steed  Orelia  ?  —  Yes,   'tis 
mine  ! 
But  never  was  she  turned  from  battle- 
line  : 
Lo  !    where    the   recreant  spurs   o'er 
stock  and  stone  !  — 
Curses  pursue  the  slave,  and  wrath  di- 
vine ! 
Rivers     ingulf    him  !  '  —  '  Hush,'    in. 
shuddering  tone, 
The  prelate  said ;  '  rash  prince,   yon  vis- 
ioned form  's  thine  own.' 

XXII. 

Just   then,  a   torrent  crossed  the  flier's 
course ; 
The  dangerous  ford  the  kingly  likeness 
tried  ; 
But  the  deep  eddies  whelmed  both  man 
and  horse, 
Swept  like   benighted   peasant  down 
the  tide; 
And  the  proud  Moslemah  spread  far  and 
wide, 
As  numerous  as    their   native   locust 
band  ; 


THE    VISION  OF  DON  RODERICK. 


259 


Berber  and  Ismael's  sons  the  spoils  di- 
vide, 
With   naked  scimitars    mete   out   the 
land, 
And  for  the  bondsmen  base  the  freeborn 
natives  brand. 

XXIII. 

Then  rose  the  grated  Harem,  to  enclose 
The  loveliest  maidens  of  the  Christian 
line; 
Then,  menials,  to  their  misbelieving  foes 
Castile's  young  nobles  held  forbidden 
"  wine ; 
Then,  too,   the   holy  Cross,    salvation's 
sign, 
By  impious  hands  was  from  the  altar 
thrown, 
And  the  deep  aisles  of  the  polluted  shrine 
Echoed,  for  holy  hymn  and  organ-tone, 
The    Santon's   frantic   dance,  the    Fakir's 
gibbering  moan. 

XXIV. 

How  fares  Don  Roderick  ?  —  E'en  as  one 
who  spies 
Flames  dart  their  glare  o'er  midnight's 
sable  woof, 
And  hears  around  his  children's  piercing 
cries, 
And   sees   the    pale   assistants   stand 
aloof ; 
While  cruel  Conscience  brings  him  bitter 
proof 
His  folly  or  his  crime  have  caused  his 
grief; 
And  while  above  him  nods  the  crumbling 
roof, 
He  curses  earth  and  Heaven  —  him- 
self in  chief  — 
Desperate     of      earthly     aid,     despairing 
Heaven's  relief ! 

XXV. 

That  scythe-armed  Giant  turned  his  fatal 
glass 
And  twilight  on  the  landscape  closed 
her  wings  ; 
Far  to  Asturian  hills  the  war-sounds  pass, 
And  in  their  stead  rebeck  or  timbrel 
rings ; 
And  to  the  sound  the  bell-decked  dancer 
springs, 
Bazars  resound  as  when  their  marts 
are  met, 
In  tourney  light  the  Moor  his  jerrid  flings, 
And  on  the  land  as  evening  seemed  to 
set,  • 

The  Imaum's  chant  was  heard  from  mosque 
or  minaret. 


So  passed  that  pageant.      Ere   another 
came, 
The  visionary  scene  was  wrapped  in 
smoke, 
Whose  sulphurous  wreaths  were  crossed 
by  sheets  of  flame  ; 
With  every  flash  a  bolt  explosive  broke, 
Till   Roderick    deemed  the   fiends   had 
burst  their  yoke 
And  waved  'gainst  heaven  the  infernal 
gonfalone  ! 
For  War  a  new  and  dreadful  language 
spoke, 
Never  by   ancient    warrior    heard  or 
known ; 
Lightning    and    smoke    her    breath,    and 
thunder  was  her  tone. 

XXVII. 

From  the  dim  landscape  roll  the  clouds 
away  — 
The    Christians    have  regained  their 
heritage  ; 
Before  the   Cross  has  waned  the  Cres- 
cent's ray, 
And  many  a  monastery  decks  the  stage, 
And  lofty  church,  and  low-browed  hermi- 
tage. 
The    land    obeys    a    Hermit     and    a 
Knight,  — 
The  Genii  these  of  Spain  for  many  an 
age; 
This  clad  in  sackcloth,  that  in  armor 
bright, 
And  that  was  Valor  named,  this  Bigotry 
was  hignt. 

XXVIII. 

Valor  was  harnessed  like  a  chief  of  old, 
Armed  at  all  points,  and  prompt  for 
knightly  gest ; 
His  sword  was  tempered  in  the  Ebro  cold, 
Morena's  eagle  plume  adorned  his  crest, 
The   spoils   of    Afric's   lion   bound  his 
breast. 
Fierce  he  stepped  forward  and  flung 
down  his  gage ; 
As  if  of  mortal  kind  to  brave  the  best. 
Him  followed  his  companion,  dark  and 
sage 
As   he   my   Master  sung,   the    dangerous 
Arch  image. 

XXIX. 

Haughty  of  heart  and  brow  the  warrior 
came, 
In  look  and  language  proud  as  proud 
might  be, 


26o 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL   WORKS. 


Vaunting    his    lordship,   lineage,    fights, 
and  fame  : 
Yet   was    that    barefoot    monk   more 
proud  than  he  ; 
And  as  the  ivy  climbs  the  tallest  tree, 
So  round  the  loftiest  soul  his  toils  he 
wound, 
And  with  his  spells  subdued  the  fierce 
and  free. 
Till  ermined  Age  and  Youth  in  arms 
renowned, 
Honoring  his  scourge  and  haircloth,  meekly 
kissed  the  ground. 

XXX. 

And  thus  it  chanced  that  Valor,  peer- 
less knight, 
Who  ne'er  to  king  or  Kaiser  veiled  his 
crest, 
Victorious  still  in  bull-feast  or  in  fight, 
Since  first  his  limbs  with  mail  he  did 
invest. 
Stooped  ever  to  that  anchoret's  behest : 
Nor  reasoned  of  the  right  nor  of  the 
wrong, 
But  at  his  bidding  laid  the  lance  in  rest, 
And  wrought  fell  deeds  the  troubled 
world  along, 
For  he  was  fierce  as  brave  and  pitiless  as 
strong. 

XXXI. 

Oft  his  proud  galleys  sought  some  new- 
found world, 
That  latest  sees  the  sun  or  first  the 
morn ; 
Still  at  that  wizard's  feet  their  spoils  he 
hurled,  — 
Ingots  of  ore  from  rich  Potosi  borne, 
Crowns  by  Caciques,  aigrettes  by  Om- 
rahs  worn, 
Wrought   of  rare  gems,  but  broken, 
rent,  and  foul ; 
Idols  of  gold  from  heathen  temples  torn, 
Bedabbled    all    with     blood.  —  With 
grisly  scowl 
The  hermit  marked  the  stains  and  smiled 
beneath  his  cowl. 

XXXII. 

Then  did  he  bless  the  offering,  and  bade 
make 
Tribute   to    Heaven  of  gratitude  and 
praise  ; 
And  at  his  word  the  choral  hymns  awake, 
And  many  a  hand   the  silver  censer 
sways, 
But  with  the  incense-breath  these  censers 
raise 


Mix  steams  from  corpses  smouldering 
in  the  fire  ; 
The   groans  of  prisoned  victims  mar  the 
lays, 
And  shrieks  of  agony   confound   the 
quire  ; 
While,  'mid  the  mingled  sounds,  the  dark- 
ened scenes  expire. 


XXXIII. 

Preluding  light,  were  strains  of  music 
heard, 
As  once  again  revolved  that  measured 
sand ; 
Such  sounds  as  when,  for  sylvan  dance 
prepared, 
Gay  Xeres  summons  forth  her  vintage 
band ; 
When  for  the  light  bolero  ready  stand 
The  mozo  blithe,  with  gay  muchacha 
met, 
He  conscious  of  his  broidered  cap  and 
band, 
She  of  her  netted  locks  and  light  cor- 
sette, 
Each  tiptoe  perched  to  spring  and  shake 
the  castanet. 


xxxiv. 
And  well  such  strains  the  opening  scene 
became ; 
For  Valor  had  relaxed  his  ardent  look, 
And  at  a  lady's  feet,  like  lion  tame, 
Lay  stretched,  full  loath  the  weight  of 
arms  to  brook ; 
And  softened  Bigotry  upon  his  book 
Pattered  a  task  of  little  good  or  ill : 
But  the  blithe  peasant  plied  his  pruning- 
hook, 
Whistled  the  muleteer  o'er  vale  andhill, 
And  rung    from   village-green  the   merry 
seguidille. 


XXXV. 

Gray  Royalty,  grown  impotent  of  toil. 

Let  the  grave  sceptre  slip  his  lazy  hold ; 
And  careless  saw  his  rule  become  the 
spoil 
Of  a  loose  female  and  her  minion  bold. 
But  peace  was  on  the  cottage  and  the 
fold, 
From  court  intrigue,  from  bickering 
faction  far ; 
Beneath  the  chestnut-tree  love's  tale  was 
told, 
And«to  the  tinkling  of  the  light  guitar 
Sweet  stooped  the  western  sun,  sweet  rose 
the  evening  star. 


THE    VISION  OF  DON  RODERICK. 


26l 


xxxvi. 

As  that  sea-cloud,  in   size   like   human 
hand 
When  first  from  Carmel  by  the  Tishbite 
seen, 
Came  slowly  overshadowing  Israel's  land, 
Awhile  perchance  bedecked  with  colors 
sheen, 
While  yet  the  sunbeams  on  its  skirts  had 
been, 
Limning  with  purple  and  with  gold  its 
shroud, 
Till  darker  folds  obscured  the  blue  serene 
And  blotted  heaven  with  one  broad  sa- 
ble cloud, 
Then  sheeted  rain  burst  down  and  whirl- 
winds howled  aloud  :  — 


XXXVII. 

Even  so,  upon  that  peaceful  scene  was 
poured, 
Like  gathering  clouds,  full  many  a  for- 
eign band, 
And  He,  their  leader,  wore  in  sheath  his 
sword, 
And  offered  peaceful  front  and  open 
hand, 
Veiling  the  perjured  treachery  he  planned, 
By  friendship's  zeal  and  honor's  spe- 
cious guise, 
Until  he  won  the  passes  of  the  land ; 
Then    burst   were   honor's    oath   and 
friendship's  ties  ! 
He  clutched  his  vulture  grasp  and  called  fair 
Spain  his  prize. 

XXXVIII. 

An  iron  crown  his  anxious  forehead  bore : 
And  well  such  diadem  his  heart  became 
Who  ne'er  his  purpose  for  remorse  gave 
o'er,  , 

Or   checked   his  course   for  piety   or 
shame; 
Who,  trained  a  soldier,  deemed  a  soldier's 
fame 
Might  flourish  in  the  wreath  of  battles 
won, 
Though  neither  truth  nor  honor  decked 
his  name  ; 
Who,  placed  by  fortune  on  a  monarch's 
throne, 
Recked  not  of  monarch's  faith  or  mercy's 
kingly  tone. 

XXXIX. 

From  a  rude  isle  his  ruder  lineage  came  : 
The  spark  that,  from  a  suburb-hovel's 
hearth 


Ascending,  wraps  some  capital  in  flame, 
Hath  not  a  meaner  or  more  sordid  birth. 
And  for  the  soul  that  bade  him  waste  the 
earth  — 
The  sable  land-flood  from  some  swamp 
obscure, 
That  poisons  the  glad  husband-field  with 
dearth, 
And  by  destruction  bids  its  fame  en- 
dure, 
Hath  not  a  source  more  sullen,  stagnant, 
and  impure. 

XL. 

Before  that  leader  strode  a  shadowy  form ; 
Her  limbs   like  mist,  her  torch   like 
meteor  showed, 
With  which    she   beckoned    him  through 
fight  and  storm, 
And  all  he  crushed  that  crossed  his 
desperate  road, 
Nor  thought,  nor  feared,  nor  looked  on 
what  he  trode. 
Realms  could  not  glut  his  pride,  blood 
could  not  slake, 
So  oft  as  e'er  she  shook  her  torch  abroad  : 
It  was   Ambition    bade    his    terrors 
wake, 
Nor  deigned  she,  as  of  yore,  a  milder  form 
to  take. 

XLI. 

No  longer  now  she  spurned  at  mean  re- 
venge, 
Or  staid  her  hand  for  conquered  foe- 
man's  moan, 
As  when,  the   fates   of  aged  Rome   to 
change, 
By  Caesar's  side  she  crossed  the  Ru- 
bicon. 
Nor  joyed  she  to  bestow  the  spoils  she 
won, 
As  when  the  banded  powers  of  Greece 
were  tasked 
To  war  beneath  the  Youth  of  Macedon  ■ 
No   seemly  veil  her  modern   minion 
asked, 
He  saw  her  hideous  face  and  loved  the  fiend 
unmasked. 


That  prelate  marked  his  march  —  on  ban- 
ners blazed 
With   battles  won   in  many  a  distant 
land, 
On  eagle-standards  and  on  arms  he  gazed : 
1  And  hopest  thou,  then,'  he  said,  '  thy 
power  shall  stand  ? 
O,  thou  hast  builded  on  the  shifting  sand 


262 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL    WORKS. 


And  thou  hast  tempered  it  with  slaugh- 
ter's flood  ; 
And  know,  fell  scourge  in  the  Almighty's 
hand, 
Gore-moistened   trees  shall  perish  in 
the  bud, 
And  by  a  bloody  death  shall  die  the  Man  of 
Blood ! ' 

XLIII. 

The  ruthless  leader  beckoned  from  his 
train 
A  wan  fraternal  shade,  and  bade  him 
kneel, 
And  paled  his  temples  with  the  crown  of 
Spain, 
While  trumpets  rang  and  heralds  cried 
<  Castile  ! ' 
Not  that  he  loved  him  —  No!  —  In   no 
man's  weal, 
Scarce  in  his  own,  e'er  joyed  that  sullen 
heart ; 
Yet  round  that  throne  he  bade  his  war- 
riors wheel, 
That  the  poor  puppet  might  perform 
his  part 
And  be  a  sceptred  slave,  at  his  stern  beck 
to  start. 

XLIV. 

But  on  the  natives  of  that  land  misused 
Not  long  the   silence   of   amazement 
hung, 
Nor  brooked  they  long  their  friendly  faith 
abused ; 
For  with  a  common  shriek  the  general 
tongue 
Exclaimed,  '  To  arms  ! '  and  fast  to  arms 
they  sprung.  t 

And  Valor  woke,  that  Genius  of  the 
land! 
Pleasure  and   ease   and   sloth  aside  he 
flung, 
As  burst  the  awakening  Nazarite  his 
band 
When    'gainst    his    treacherous    foes    he 
clenched  his  dreadful  hand. 

XLV. 

That  mimic  monarch  now  cast  anxious 
eye 
Upon  the  satraps  that  begirt  him  round, 
Now  doffed  his  royal  robe  in  act  to  fly, 

And  from  his  brow  the  diadem  unbound. 
So  oft,  so  near,  the  Patriot  bugle  wound, 
From  Tarik's  walls  to  Bilboa's  moun- 
tains blown, 
These  martial  satellites  hard  labor  found, 
To  guard  awhile  his  substituted  throne ; 
Light  recking  of  his  cause,  but  battling  for 
their  own. 


XLVI. 

From  Alpuhara's  peak  that  bugle  rung, 
And  it   was   echoed   from    Corunna's 
wall ; 
Stately     Seville     responsive     war-shout 
flung, 
Grenada  caught  it  in  her  Moorish  hall ; 
Galicia  bade  her  children  fight  or  fall, 
Wild  Biscay  shook  his  mountain-coro- 
net, 
Valencia  roused  her  at  the  battle-call, 
And,  foremost  still  where  Valor's  sons 
are  met, 
Fast  started  to  his  gun  each  fiery  Miquelet. 


But  unappalled  and  burning  for  the  fight, 
The  invaders  march,  of  victory  secure  ; 
Skilful  their  force  to  sever  or  unite, 

And  trained  alike  to  vanquish  or  endure. 
Nor  skilful  less,  cheap  conquest  to  insure 
Discord  to  breathe  and  jealousy  to  sow, 
To  quell  by  boasting  and  by  bribes  to 
lure ; 
While  naught  against  them  bring  the 
unpractised  foe, 
Save  hearts  for  freedom's  cause  and  hands 
for  freedom's  blow. 

XLVIII. 

Proudly  they  march  —  but,  O,  they  march 
not  forth 
By  one  hot  field  to  crown  a  brief  cam- 
paign, 
As  when  their  eagles,  sweeping  through 
the  North, 
Destroyed  at  every  stoop  an  ancient 
reign ! 
Far  other  fate  had  Heaven  decreed  for 
Spain ; 
In  vain  the  steel,  in  vain  the  torch  was 
plied, 
New  Patriot  armies  started  from  the  slain, 
High  blazed  the  war,  and  long,  and  far, 
and  wide, 
And  oft  the  God  of  "Battles  blest  the  right- 
eous side. 

XLIX. 

Nor   unatoned,   where    Freedom's    foes 
prevail, 
Remained  their  savage  waste.     With 
blade  and  brand 
By  day  the  invaders  ravaged  hill  and  dale, 
But  with  the  darkness  the  Guerilla  band 
Came  like  night's  tempest  and  avenged 
the  land, 
And  claimed  for  blood  the  retribution 
due, 


THE    VISION  OE  DON  RODERICK. 


263 


Probed  the  hard  heart  and  lopped  the 
murd'rous  hand  ; 
And  Dawn,  when  o'er  the  scene  her 
beams  she  threw, 
Midst  ruins  they  had  made  the  spoilers' 
corpses  knew. 


What  minstrel  verse  may  sing  or  tongue 
may  tell, 
Amid  the  visioned  strife  from  sea  to 
sea, 
How  oft  the  Patriot  banners  rose  or  fell, 

Still  honored  in  defeat  as  victory  ? 
For  that  sad  pageant  of  events  to  be 
Showed  every  form  of  fight  by  field  and 
flood ; 
Slaughter  and  Ruin,  shouting  forth  their 
glee, 
Beheld,  while   riding  on  the  tempest 
scud, 
The  waters  choked  with  slain,  the  earth  be- 
drenched  with  blood  ! 


Then  Zaragoza  —  blighted  be  the  tongue 

That  names  thy  name  without  the  honor 

due  ! 

For  never  hath  the  harp  of  minstrel  rung 

Of  faith  so  felly  proved,  so  firmly  true  ! 

Mine,  sap,  and  bomb  thy  shattered  ruins 

knew. 


Each  art  of  war's  extremity  had  room, 
Twice  from  thy  half-sacked  streets  the  foe 
withdrew, 
And  when  at  length  stern  Fate  decreed 
thy  doom, 
They  won  not  Zaragoza  but  her  children's 
bloody  tomb. 


LII. 

Yet  raise  thy  head,  sad  city  !  Though  in 
chains, 
Enthralled  thou  canst  not  be  !    Arise, 
and  claim 
Reverence  from  every  heart  where  Free- 
dom reigns, 
For    what    thou    worshippest  !  —  thy 
sainted  dame, 
She  of  the  Column,  honored  be  her  name 
By  all,  whate'er  their  creed,  who  honor 
love ! 
And  like  the  sacred  relics  of  the  flame 
That  gave  some  martyr  to  the  blessed 
above, 
To  every  loyal  heart  may  thy  sad  embers 
prove  ! 


Nor  thine  alone  such  wreck.    Gerona  fair  ! 
Faithful  to  death  thy  heroes  should  be 

sung, 
Manning  the  towers,  while  o'er  their  heads 

the  air 


264 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL   WORKS. 


Swart  as  the  smoke  from  raging  fur- 
nace hung ; 
Now  thicker  darkening  where  the  mine 
was  sprung, 
Now  briefly  lightened  by  the  cannon's 
flare, 
Now  arched  with  fire-sparks  as  the  bomb 
was  flung, 
And    reddening   now   with    conflagra- 
tion's glare, 
While  by  the  fatal  light  the  foes  for  storm 
prepare. 

LIV. 

While  all  around  was  danger,  strife,  and 
fear, 
While  the  earth  shook  and  darkened 
was  the  sky, 
And  wide  destruction  stunned  the  listen- 
ing ear, 
Appalled  the  heart,  and  stupefied  the 
eye, — 
Afar  was  heard  that  thrice-repeated  cry, 
In  which  old  Albion's  heart  and  tongue 
unite, 
Whene'er  her  soul  is  up  and  pulse  beats 
high, 
Whether  it  hail  the  wine-cup  or  the 
fight, 
And  bid  each  arm  be  strong  or  bid  each 
heart  be  light. 

LV. 

Don  Roderick  turned  him  as  the  shout 
grew  loud  — 
A  varied  scene  the  changeful  vision 
showed, 
For,  where  the  ocean  mingled  with   the 
cloud, 
A  gallant  navy  stemmed  the  billows 
broad. 
From   mast   and    stern    Saint    George's 
symbol  flowed, 
Blent  with  the  silver  cross  to  Scotland 
dear ; 
Mottling  the  sea  their  landward  barges 
rowed, 
And  flashed  the  sun  on  bayonet,  brand, 
and  spear, 
And  the  wild  beach  returned  the  seamen's 
jovial  cheer. 


It  was  a  dread  yet  spirit-stirring  sight! 
The  billows  foamed  beneath  a  thou- 
sand oars. 

Fast  as  they  land   the  red-cross  ranks 
unite, 


Legions  on  legions  brightening  all  the 
shores. 
Then    banners    rise    and    cannon-signal 
roars. 
Then  peals  the  warlike  thunder  of  the 
drum, 
Thrills  the  loud  fife,  the  trumpet-flourish 
pours, 
And  patriot  hopes  awake  and  doubts 
are  dumb, 
For,  bold  in  Freedom's  cause,  the  bands  of 
Ocean  come ! 

LVII. 

A  various  host  they  came  —  whose  ranks 
display 
Each  mode  in  which  the  warrior  meets 
the  fight : 
The  deep  battalion  locks  its  firm  array. 
And  meditates  his  aim  the  marksman 
light; 
Far  glance  the  lines  of  sabres  flashing 
bright, 
Where  mounted  squadrons  shake  the 
echoing  mead  ; 
Lacks  not  artillery  breathing  flame  and 

night, 
.     Nor  the  fleet  ordnance  whirled  by  rapid 
steed, 
That  rivals  lightning's  flash  in  ruin  and  in 
speed. 

LVIII. 

A  various  host  —  from  kindred  realms 
they  came, 
Brethren   in    arms    but    rivals    in    re- 
nown— 
For  yon  fair  bands  shall  merry  England 
claim, 
And  with  their  deeds  of  valor  deck  her 
crown. 
Hers  their  bold  port,  and  hers  their  mar- 
tial frown, 
And  hers  their  scorn  of  death  in  free- 
dom's cause, 
Their  eyes  of  azure,  and  their  locks  of 
brown, 
And  the  blunt  speech  that  bursts  with- 
out a  pause, 
And  freeborn  thoughts  which  league  the 
soldier  with  the  laws. 

LIX. 

And,  O  loved  warriors  of  the  minstrel's 

land! 
Yonder  your  bonnets  nod,  your  tartans 

wave ! 
The  rugged  form  may  mark  the  mountain 

band, 


THE    VISION  OF  DON  RODERICK. 


265 


And  harsher  features,  and  a  mien  more 
grave : 
But  ne'er  in  battle-field  throbbed  heart  so 
brave 
As  that  which  beats  beneath  the  Scot- 
tish plaid ; 
And  when  the  pibroch  bids  the  battle 
rave, 
And  level  for  the  charge  your  arms  are 
laid, 
Where  lives  the  desperate  foe  that  for  such 
onset  staid  ? 


Hark !     from    yon    stately   ranks    what 

laughter  rings, 
iMingling   wild    mirth   with   war's    stern 

minstrelsy, 
His  jest  while  each  blithe  comrade  round 
him  flings 
And  moves  to  death  with  military  glee : 
Boast,  Erin,  boast  them  !  tameless,  frank, 
and  free, 
In  kindness  warm  and  fierce  in  danger 
known, 
Rough    nature's    children,  humorous  as 
she : 
And    He,   yon    Chieftain  —  strike  the 
proudest  tone 
Of  thy  bold  harp,  green  Isle  !  —  the  hero 
is  thine  own. 


LXI. 

Now  on   the  scene  Vimeira  should  be 
shown, 
On  Talavera's  fight  should   Roderick 
gaze, 
And  hear  Corunna  wail  her  battle  won, 
And  see  Busaco's  crest  with  lightning 
blaze  :  — 
But  shall  fond  fable  mix    with    heroes' 
praise  t 
Hath  Fiction's  stage  for  Truth's  long 
triumphs  room  ? 
And  dare  her  wild-flowers  mingle   with 
the  bays 
That  claim  a  long  eternity  to  bloom 
Around   the  warrior's  crest   and  o'er   the 
warrior's  tomb ! 


LXII. 

Or  may  I  give  adventurous  Fancy  scope, 
And  stretch  a  bold  hand  to  the  awful 
veil 
That  hides  futurity  from  anxious  hope. 

Bidding  beyond  it  scenes  of  glory  hail,. 
And    painting    Europe    rousing    at   the 
tale 
Of  Spain's  invaders  from  her  confines 
hurled, 
While  kindling  nations  buckle  on  their 
mail, 


266 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL    WORKS. 


And     Fame,    with    clarion-blast    and 
wings  unfurled, 
To  freedom  and  revenge  awakes  an  injured 
world  ? 

LXIII. 

O  vain,  though  anxious,  is  the  glance  I 
cast, 
Since   Fate  has   marked  futurity  her 
own: 
Yet  Fate  resigns  to  worth  the  glorious 
past, 
The  deeds  recorded  and   the  laurels 
won. 
Then,  though  the  Vault  of  Destiny  be 
gone, 
King,  prelate,  all  the  phantasms  of  my 
brain, 
Melted   away  like   mist-wreaths   in  the 
sun, 
Yet  grant  for  faith,  for  valor,  and  for 
Spain, 
One   note   of    pride   and   fire,   a   patriot's 
parting  strain ! 


£fje  Utston  of  ©on  Eooericfc. 


CONCLUSION. 


*  Who  shall  command  Estrella's  mountain- 
tide 
Back    to    the  source,   when    tempest- 
chafed,  to  hie  ? 
Who,   when   Gascogne's   vexed   gulf  is 
raging  wide, 
Shall  hush  it  as  a  nurse  her  infant's  cry  ? 
His  magic  power  let  such  vain  boaster  try, 
And  when  the  torrent  shall  his  voice 
obey, 
And  Biscay's  whirlwinds  list  his  lullaby, 
Let  him   stand   forth    and  bar   mine 
eagles'  way, 
And  they  shall  heed  his  voice  and  at  his 
bidding  stay. 


*  Else  ne'er  to  stoop  till  high  on  Lisbon's 
towers 
They  close  their  wings,  the  symbol  of 
our  yoke, 
And  their  own  sea  hath  whelmed  yon  red- 
cross  powers  ! ' 
Thus,  on  the  summit  of  Alverca's  rock, 


To  marshal,  duke,  and  peer  Gaul's  leader 
spoke. 
While   downward  on  the  land  his  le- 
gions press, 
Before  them  it  was  rich  with   vine  and 
flock, 
And  smiled  like  Eden  in  her  summer 
dress ;  — 
Behind  their  wasteful  march  a  reeking  wil- 
derness. 


And  shall  the  boastful  chief  maintain  his 
word, 
Though  Heaven  hath  heard  the  wail- 
ings  of  the  land, 
Though    Lusitania    whet    her    vengeful 
sword, 
Though   Britons   arm   and  Welling- 
ton command  ? 
No  !  grim  Busaco's  iron  ridge  shall  stand 

An  adamantine  barrier  to  his  force  ; 
And  from  its  base  shall  wheel  his  shat- 
tered band, 
As  from  the  unshaken  rock  the  torrent 
hoarse 
Bears  off   its  broken  waves  and  seeks   a 
devious  course. 


'      IV. 

Yet  not  because  Alcoba's  mountain-hawk 
Hath  on  his  best  and  bravest  made  her 
food, 
In  numbers  confident,  yon  chief  shall  balk 
His  lord's  imperial  thirst  for  spoil  and 
blood : 
For  full  in  view  the  promised  conquest 
stood, 
And  Lisbon's  matrons  from  their  walls 
might  sum 
The  myriads  that  had  half  the  world  sub- 
dued, 
And  hear  the  distant  thunders  of  the 
drum 
That  bids  the  bands  of  France  to  storm  and 
havoc  come. 

v. 

Four  moons  have  heard  these  thunders 
idly  rolled, 
Have  seen  these  wistful  myriads  eye 
their  prey, 
As   famished  wolves  survey  a  guarded 
fold  — 
But  in  the  middle  path  a  Lion  lay  ! 
At  length  they  move  —  but  not  to  battle- 
fray, 
Nor  blaze  yon  fires  where  meets  the 
manly  fight: 


THE    VISION  OF  DON  RODERICK. 


267 


Beacons  of  infamy,  they  light  the  way 
Where  cowardice  and  cruelty  unite 
To  damn  with  double  shame  their  ignomini- 
ous flight ! 


O   triumph   for  the   fiends   of  lust  and 
wrath  ! 
Ne'er  to  be  told,  yet  ne'er  to  be  forgot, 
What  wanton  horrors  marked  their  wrack- 
ful  path ! 
The  peasant  butchered  in  his  ruined  cot, 
The  hoary  priest  even  at  the  altar  shot, 
Childhood  and  age  given  o'er  to  sword 
and  flame, 


Nor  prince  nor  peer,  the  wealthy  nor 
the  gay, 
Nor  the  poor  peasant's  mite,    nor  bard's 
more  worthless  lay. 

VIII. 

But  thou  —  unfoughten  wilt  thou  yield  to 
Fate, 

Minion  of  Fortune,  now  miscalled  in 
vain  ! 

Can  vantage-ground  no  confidence  cre- 
ate, 

Marcella's  pass,  nor  Guarda's  moun- 
tain-chain ? 


Woman  to  infamy  ;  —  no  crime  forgot, 
By  which  inventive  demons  might  pro- 
claim 
Immortal  hate  to  man  and  scorn  of  God's 
great  name  ! 


The  rudest  sentinel  in  Britain  born 
With  horror  paused  to  view  the  havoc 
done, 
Gave  his  poor  crust  to  feed  some  wretch 
forlorn, 
Wiped  his  stern  eye,  then  fiercer  grasped 

his  gun. 
Nor  with  less  zeal  shall  Britain's  peace- 
ful son 
Exult  the  debt  of  sympathy  to  pay ; 
Riches  nor  poverty  the  tax  shall  shun, 


Vainglorious  fugitive,  yet  turn  again  ! 
Behold,  where,   named  by  some  pro- 
phetic seer, 
Flows  Honor's  Fountain,  as  foredoomed 
the  stain 
From  thy  dishonored  name  and  arms 
to  clear  — 
Fallen  child  of  Fortune,  turn,  redeem  her 
favor  here ! 


Yet,  ere  thou  turn'st,  collect  each  distant 
aid  ; 
Those  chief  that  never  heard  the  lion 
roar! 
Within  whose  souls  lives  not  a  trace  por- 
trayed 
Of  Talavera  or  Mondego's  shore  ! 


268 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL   WORKS. 


Marshal  each  band  thou  hast  and  sum- 
mon more  ; 
Of  war's  fell   stratagems  exhaust  the 
whole ; 
Rank  upon  rank,  squadron  on  -squadron 
pour, 
Legion  on  legion  on  thy  foeman  roll, 
And  weary  out  his  arm  —  thou  canst  not 
quell  his  soul. 


x. 

O    vainly  gleams   with    steel   Agueda's 
shore, 
Vainly  thy  squadron's  hide  Assuava's 
plain, 
And  front  the  flying  thunders  as  they 
roar, 
With  frantic  charge  and  tenfold  odds, 
in  vain ! 
And  what  avails  thee  that  for  Cameron 
slain 
Wild  from  his  plaided  ranks  the  yell 
was  given  ? 
Vengeance  and  grief  gave  mountain-rage 
the  rein, 
And,  at  the  bloody  spear-point  head- 
long driven, 
Thy  despot's  giant  guards  fled  like  the  rack 
of  heaven. 

XI. 

Go,  baffled  boaster!  teach  thy  haughty 
mood 
To  plead  at  thine  imperious  master's 
throne ! 
Say,  thou  hast  left  his  legions  in  their 
blood, 
Deceived,  his    hopes    and    frustrated 
thine  own  ; 
Say,  that  thine  utmost  skill  and  valor 
shown 
By  British  skill  and  valor  were  out- 
vied; 
Last  say,  thy  conqueror  was  Welling- 
ton ! 
And  if  he  chafe,  be  his  own  fortune 
tried  — 
God  and  our  cause  to  friend,  the  venture 
we  '11  abide. 

XII. 

But  you,  the  heroes  of  that  well-fought 
day, 
How  shall  a  bard  unknowing  and  un- 
known 
His  meed  to  each  victorious  leader  pay, 
Or  bind  on  every  brow  the  laurels  won  ? 
Yet  fain  my  harp  would  wake  its  boldest 
tone, 


O'er  the  wide  sea  to  hail  Cadogan 
brave ; 
And    he    perchance    the    minstrel-note 
might  own, 
Mindful  of  meeting  brief  that  Fortune 
gave 
Mid  yon  far  western  isles  that  hear  the 
Atlantic  rave. 


Yes  !  hard  the  task,  when  Britons  wield 
the  sword, 
To  give  each  chief  and  every  field  its 
fame  : 
Hark  !  Albuera  thunders  Beresford, 
And  red  Barosa  shouts  for  dauntless 
GrjEME  ! 
O  for  a  verse  of  tumult  and  of  flame, 
Bold  as  the  bursting  of  their  cannon 
sound, 
To  bid  the  world  re-echo  to  their  fame  ! 
For  never  upon  gory  battle-ground 
With  conquest's  well-bought  wreath  were 
braver  victors  crowned ! 


xiv. 

O  who  shall  grudge  him  Albuera's  bays 
Who  brought  a  race  regenerate  to  the 
field, 
Roused  them  to  emulate  their  fathers' 
praise, 
Tempered  their  headlong  rage,  their 
courage  steeled, 
And  raised  fair  Lusitania's  fallen  shield, 
And    gave   new   edge    to   Lusitania's 
sword, 
And  taught  her  sons  forgotten  arms  to 
wield  — 
Shivered  my  harp  and  burst  its  every 
chord, 
If  it  forget  thy  worth,  victorious  Beres- 
ford ! 

xv. 

Not  on  that  bloody  field  of  battle  won, 
Though  Gaul's  proud  legions  rolled  like 
mist  away, 
Was  half  his  self-devoted  valor  shown,  — 
He  gaged  but  life  on  that  illustrious 
day; 
But  when  he  toiled  those  squadrons  to 
array 
Who  fought  like  Britons  in  the  bloody 
game, 
Sharper  than  Polish  pike  or  assagay, 
He  braved  the  shafts  of  censure  and 
of  shame, 
And,  dearer  far   than   life,  he  pledged  a 
soldier's  fame. 


THE    VISION  OF  DON  RODERICK. 


269 


XVI. 

Nor  be  his  praise  o'erpast  who  strove  to 
hide 
Beneath  the  warrior's  vest  affection's 
wound, 
Whose  wish   Heaven  for  his  country's 
weal  denied ; 
Danger  and  fate  he  sought,  but  glory 
found. 
From    clime    to   clime,   where'er   war's 
trumpets  sound, 
The  wanderer  went ;  yet,   Caledonia ! 
still 
Thine   was   his   thought   in  march   and 
tented  ground ; 
He  dreamed  mid  Alpine  cliffs  of  Ath- 
ole's  hill, 
And  heard  in  Ebro's  roar  his   Lyndoch's 
lovely  rill. 


XVII. 

O  hero  of  a  race  renowned  of  old, 

Whose  war-cry  oft  has  waked  the  battle- 
swell, 
Since  first  distinguished  in  the  onset  bold, 
Wild  sounding  when  the  Roman  ram- 
part fell ! 


By  Wallace'  side  it  rung  the  Southron's 
knell, 
Alderne,  Kilsythe,  and  Tibber  owned 
its  fame, 
Tummell's  rude  pass  can  of  its  terrors  tell, 
But  ne'er  from  prouder  field  arose  the 
name 
Than  when  wild  Ronda  learned  the  con- 
quering shout  of  Graeme  ! 


But  all  too  long,  through  seas  unknown 
and  dark,  — 
With   Spenser's   parable    I    close  my 
tale, — 
By  shoal  and  rock  hath  steered  my  ven- 
turous bark, 
And  landward  now  I  drive  before  the 
gale. 
And  now  the  blue  and  distant  shore  I 
hail, 
And  nearer  now  I  see  the  port  expand, 
And  now  I  gladly  furl  my  weary  sail, 
And,  as  the  prow  light  touches  on  the 
strand, 
I  strike  my  red-cross  flag  and  bind  my  skiff 
to  land. 


A   POEM   IN    SIX   CANTOS. 


TO 

JOHN    B.   S.    MORRITT,   ESQ., 
THIS    POEM, 

THE   SCENE  OF   WHICH   IS   LAID    IN    HIS   BEAUTIFUL  DEMESNE  OF   ROKEBY, 
IS   INSCRIBED,    IN   TOKEN    OF  SINCERE   FRIENDSHIP,   BY 

WALTER  SCOTT. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 

The  Scene  of  this  Poem  is  laid  at  Rokeby,  near  Greta  Bridge,  in  Yorkshire,  and  shifts  to  the  adjacent  fortress  of 
Barnard  Castle,  and  to  other  places  in  that  Vicinity. 

The  Time  occupied  by  the  Action  is  a  space  of  Five  Days,  Three  of  which  are  supposed  to  elapse  between  the  end  of 
the  Fifth  and  the  beginning  of  the  Sixth  Canto. 

The  date  of  the  supposed  events  is  immediately  subsequent  to  the  great  Battle  of  Marston  Moor,  3d  July,  1644. 
This  period  of  public  confusion  has  been  chosen  without  any  purpose  of  combining  the  Fable  with  the  Military  or  Politi- 
cal Events  of  the  Civil  War,  but  only  as  affording  a  degree  of  probability  to  the  Fictitious  Narrative  now  presented  to 
the  Public. 


Hokebj). 

CANTO    FIRST. 


The  moon  is  in  her  summer  glow, 
But  hoarse  and  high  the  breezes  blow, 
And,  racking  o'er  her  face,  the  cloud 
Varies  the  tincture  of  her  shroud ; 
On  Barnard's  towers  and  Tees's  stream 
She  changes  as  a  guilty  dream, 
When  Conscience  with  remorse  and  fear 
Goads  sleeping  Fancy's  wild  career. 
Her  light  seems  now  the  blush  of  shame, 
Seems  now  fierce  anger's  darker  flame, 
Shifting  that  shade  to  come  and  go, 
Like  apprehension's  hurried  glow  ; 
Then  sorrow's  livery  dims  the  air, 
And  dies  in  darkness,  like  despair. 
Such  varied  hues  the  warder  sees 


iS 


Reflected  from  the  woodland  Tees, 
Then  from  old  Baliol's  tower  looks  forth, 
Sees  the  clouds  mustering  in  the  north, 
Hears  upon  turret-roof  and  wall 
By  fits  the  plashing  rain-drop  fall, 
Lists  to  the  breeze's  boding  sound, 
And  wraps  his  shaggy  mantle  round. 


Those    towers,   which    in    the    changeful 

gleam 
Throw  murky  shadows  on  the  stream, 
Those  towers  of  Barnard  hold  a  guest, 
The  emotions  of  whose  troubled  breast, 
In  wild  and  strange  confusion  driven, 
Rival  the  flitting  rack  of  heaven. 
Ere  sleep  stern  Oswald's  senses  tied, 
Oft  had  he  changed  his  weary  side, 
Composed  his  limbs,  and  vainly  sought 
By  effort  strong  to  banish  thought. 


274 


scorrs  poetical  works. 


Sleep  came  at  length,  but  with  a  train 
Of  feelings  true  and  fancies  vain, 
Mingling,  in  wild  disorder  cast, 
The  expected  future  with  the  past. 
Conscience,  anticipating  time, 
Already  rues  the  enacted  crime, 
And  calls  her  furies  forth  to  shake 
The  sounding  scourge  and  hissing  snake 
While  her  poor  victim's  outward  throes 
Bear  witness  to  his  mental  woes, 
And  show  what  lesson  may  be  read 
Beside  a  sinner's  restless  bed. 


in. 

Thus  Oswald's  laboring  feelings  trace 
Strange  changes  in  his  sleeping  face, 
Rapid  and  ominous  as  these 
With  which  the  moonbeams  tinge  the  Tees. 
There  might  be  seen  of  shame  the  blush, 
There  anger's  dark  and  fiercer  flush, 
While  the  perturbed  sleeper's  hand 
Seemed  grasping  dagger-knife  or  brand. 
Relaxed  that  grasp,  the  heavy  sigh, 
The  tear  in  the  half-opening  eye, 
The  pallid  cheek  and  brow,  confessed 
That  grief  was  busy  in  his  breast : 
Nor  paused  that  mood — a  sudden  start 
Impelled  the  life-blood  from  the  heart ; 
Features  convulsed  and  mutterings  dread 
Show  terror  reigns  in  sorrow's  stead. 
That  pang  the  painful  slumber  broke, 
And  Oswald  with  a  start  awoke. 


He  woke,  and  feared  again  to  close 
His  eyelids  in  such  dire  repose  ; 
He  woke,  —  to  watch  the  lamp,  and  tell 
From  hour  to  hour  the  castle-bell, 
Or  listen  to  the  owlet's  cry, 
Or  the  sad  breeze  that  whistles  by, 
Or  catch  by  fits  the  tuneless  rhyme 
With  which  the  warder  cheats  the  time, 
And  envying  think  how,  when  the  sun 
Bids  the  poor  soldier's  watch  be  done, 
Couched  on  his  straw  and  fancy-free, 
He  sleeps  like  careless  infancy. 


Far  townward  sounds  a  distant  tread, 
And  Oswald,  starting  from  his  bed, 
Hath  caught  it,  though  no  human  ear, 
Unsharpened  by  revenge  and  fear, 
Could  e'er  distinguish  horse's  clank, 
Until  it  reached  the  castle  bank. 
Now  nigh  and  plain  the  sound  appears, 
The  warder's  challenge  now  he  hears, 
Then  clanking  chains  and  levers  tell 
That  o'er  the  moat  the  drawbridge  fell, 


And,  in  the  castle  court  below, 
Voices  are  heard,  and  torches  glow, 
As  marshalling  the  stranger's  way 
Straight  for  the  room  where  Oswald  lay; 
The  cry  was,  '  Tidings  from  the  host, 
Of  weight  —  a  messenger  comes  post.' 
Stifling  the  tumult  of  his  breast, 
His  answer  Oswald  thus  expressed, 
'  Bring  food  and  wine,  and  trim  the  fire  ; 
Admit  the  stranger  and  retire.' 


VI. 

The  stranger  came  with  heavy  stride  ; 

The  morion's  plumes  his  visage  hide, 

And  the  buff-coat  in  ample  fold 

Mantles  his  form's  gigantic  mould. 

Full  slender  answer  deigned  he 

To  Oswald's  anxious  courtesy, 

But  marked  by  a  disdainful  smile 

He  saw  and  scorned  the  petty  wile, 

When  Oswald  changed  the  torch's  place, 

Anxious  that  on  the  soldier's  face 

Its  partial  lustre  might  be  thrown, 

To  show  his  looks  yet  hide  his  own. 

His  guest  the  while  laid  slow  aside 

The  ponderous  cloak  of  tough  bull's  hide, 

And  to  the  torch  glanced  broad  and  clear 

The  corselet  of  a  cuirassier; 

Then  from  his  brows  the  casque  he  drew 

And  from  the  dank  plume  dashed  the  dew, 

From  gloves  of  mail  relieved  his  hands 

And  spread  them  to  the  kindling  brands, 

And,  turning  to  the  genial  board, 

Without  a  health  or  pledge  or  word 

Of  meet  and  social  reverence  said, 

Deeply  he  drank  and  fiercely  fed, 

As  free  from  ceremony's  sway, 

As  famished  wolf  that  tears  his  prey. 


VII. 

With  deep  impatience,  tinged  with  fear, 
His  host  beheld  him  gorge  his  cheer, 
And  quaff  the  full  carouse  that  lent 
His  brow  a  fiercer  hardiment. 
Now  Oswald  stood  a  space  aside, 
Now  paced  the  room  with  hasty  stride, 
In  feverish  agony  to  learn 
Tidings  of  deep  and  dread  concern, 
Cursing  each  moment  that  his  guest 
Protracted  o'er  his  ruffian  feast, 
Yet,  viewing  with  alarm  at  last 
The  end  of  that  uncouth  repast, 
Almost  he  seemed  their  haste  to  rue 
As  at  his  sign  his  train  withdrew, 
And  left  him  with  the  stranger,  free 
To  question  of  his  mystery. 
Then  did  his  silence  long  proclaim 
A  struggle  between  fear  and  shame. 


ROKEBY. 


275 


VIII. 

Much  in  the  stranger's  mien  appears 
To  justify  suspicious  fears. 
On  his  dark  face  a  scorching  clime 
And  toil  had  done  the  work  of  time, 
Roughened  the  brow,  the  temples  bared, 
And  sable  hairs  with  silver  shared, 
Yet  left  —  what  age  alone  could  tame  — 
The  lip  of  pride,  the  eye  of  flame ; 
The  full-drawn  lip  that  upward  curled, 
The  eye  that  seemed  to  scorn  the  world 
That  lip  had  terror  never  blanched ; 
Ne'er  in  that  eye  had  tear-drop  quenched 
The  flash  severe  of  swarthy  glow 
That  mocked  at  pain  and  knew  not  woe. 
Inured  to  danger's  direst  form, 
Tornado  and  earthquake,  flood  and  storm, 
Death  had  he  seen  by  sudden  blow, 
By  wasting  plague,  by  tortures  slow, 
By  mine  or  breach,  by  steel  or  ball, 
Knew  all  his  shapes  and  scorned  them  all. 

IX. 

But  yet,  though  Bertram's  hardened  look 
Unmoved  could  blood  and  danger  brook, 
Still  worse  than  apathy  had  place 
On  his  swart  brow  and  callous  face  ; 
For  evil  passions  cherished  long 
Had  ploughed  them  with  impressions  strong. 
All  that  gives  gloss  to  sin,  all  gay 
Light  folly,  past  with  youth  away, 


But  rooted  stood  in  manhood's  hour 
The  weeds  of  vice  without  their  flower. 
And  yet  the  soil  in  which  they  grew, 
Had  it  been  tamed  when  life  was  new, 
Had  depth  and  vigor  to  bring  forth 
The  hardier  fruits  of  virtuous  worth. 
Not  that  e'en  then  his  heart  had  known 
The  gentler  feelings'  kindly  tone  ; 
But  lavish  waste  had  been  refined 
To  bounty  in  his  chastened  mind, 
And  lust  of  gold,  that  waste  to  feed, 
Been  lost  in  love  of  glory's  meed, 
And,  frantic  then  no  more,  his  pride 
Had  ta'en  fair  virtue  for  its  guide. 


x. 

Even  now,  by  conscience  unrestrained, 
Clogged  by  gross  vice,  by  slaughter  stained, 
Still  knew  his  daring  soul  to  soar, 
And  mastery  o'er  the  mind  he  bore  ; 
For  meaner  guilt  or  heart  less  hard 
Quailed  beneath  Bertram's  bold  regard. 
And  this  felt  Oswald,  while  in  vain 
He  strove  by  many  a  winding  train 
To  lure  his  sullen  guest  to  show 
Unasked  the  news  he  longed  to  know, 
While  on  far  other  subject  hung 
His  heart  than  faltered  from  his  tongue. 
Yet  naught  for  that  his  guest  did  deign 
To  note  or  spare  his  secret  pain, 


2j6 


scorrs  poetical  works. 


But  still  in  stern  and  stubborn  sort 
Returned  him  answer  dark  and  short, 
Or  started  from  the  theme  to  range 
In  loose  digression  wild  and  strange, 
And  forced  the  embarrassed  host  to  buy 
By  query  close  direct  reply. 


Awhile  he  glozed  upon  the  cause 
Of  Commons,  Covenant,  and  Laws, 
And  Church  reformed  —  but  felt  rebuke 
Beneath  grim  Bertram's  sneering  look, 
Then   stammered  —  '  Has    a    field    been 

fought  ? 
Has  Bertram  news  of  battle  brought  ? 
For  sure  a  soldier,  famed  so  far 
In  foreign  fields  for  feats  of  war, 
On  eve  of  fight  ne'er  left  the  host 
Until  the  field  were  won  and  lost.' 
'  Here,  in  your  towers  by  circling  Tees, 
You,  Oswald  Wy cliff e,  rest  at  ease ; 
Why  deem  it  strange  that  others  come 
To  share  such  safe  and  easy  home, 
From  fields  where  danger,  death,  and  toil 
Are  the  reward  of  civil  broil  ?  '  — 
'  Nay,  mock   not,   friend !    since    well    we 

know 
The  near  advances  of  the  foe, 
To  mar  our  northern  army's  work, 
Encamped  before  beleaguered  York 
Thy  horse  with  valiant  Fairfax  lay, 
And   must   have   fought  —  how   went    the 

day  ? ' 

XII. 

«  Wouldst   hear   the    tale  ?  —  On    Marston 

heath 
Met  front  to  front  the  ranks  of  death ; 
Flourished  the  trumpets  fierce,  and  now 
Fired  was  each  eye  and  flushed  each  brow; 
On  either  side  loud  clamors  ring, 
u  God  and  the  Cause  !  "  —  "  God  and  the 

King ! " 
Right  English  all,  they  rushed  to  blows, 
With  naught  to  win  and  all  to  lose. 
I    could   have    laughed  —  but  lacked   the 

time  — 
To  see,  in  phrenesy  sublime, 
How  the  fierce  zealots  fought  and  bled 
For  king  or  state,  as  humor  led  ; 
Some  for  a  dream  of  public  good, 
Some  for  church-tippet,  gown,  and  hood, 
Draining  their  veins,  in  death  to  claim 
A  patriot's  or  a  martyr's  name.  — 
Led  Bertram  Risingham  the  hearts 
That  countered  there  on  adverse  parts, 
No  superstitious  fool  had  I 
Sought  El  Dorados  in  the  sky  ! 
Chili  had  heard  me  through  her  states, 
And  Lima  oped  her  silver  gates, 


Rich  Mexico  I  had  marched  through, 
And  sacked  the  splendors  of  Peru, 
Till  sunk  Pizarro's  daring  name, 
And,  Cortez,  thine,  in  Bertram's  fame.'  — 
1  Still  from  the  purpose  wilt  thou  stray  ! 
Good  gentle  friend,  how  went  the  day  ? 

XIII. 

'  Good  am  I  deemed  at  trumpet  sound, 
And  good  where  goblets  dance  the  round, 
Though  gentle  ne'er  was  joined  till  now 
With  rugged  Bertram's  breast  and  brow.  — 
But  I  resume.     The  battle's  rage 
Was  like  the  strife  which  currents  wage 
Where  Orinoco  in  his  pride 
Rolls  to  the  main  no  tribute  tide, 
But  'gainst  broad  ocean  urges  far 
A  rival  sea  of  roaring  war; 
While,  in  ten  thousand  eddies  driven, 
The  billows  fling  their  foam  to  heaven, 
And  the  pale  pilot  seeks  in  vain 
Where  rolls  the  river,  where  the  main 
Even  thus  upon  the  bloody  field 
i  The  eddying  tides  of  conflict  wheeled 
|  Ambiguous,  till  that  heart  of  flame, 
Hot  Rupert,  on  our  squadrons  came, 
Hurling  against  our  spears  a  line 
Of  gallants  fiery  as  their  wine  ; 
Then  ours,  though  stubborn  in  their  zeal, 
In  zeal's  despite  began  to  reel. 
What  wouldst  thou  more  ?  —  in  tumult  tost. 
Our  leaders  fell,  our  ranks  were  lost. 
A  thousand  men  who  drew  the  sword 
For  both  the  Houses  and  the  Word, 
Preached  forth  from  hamlet,  grange,  and 

down, 
To  curb  the  crosier  and  the  crown, 
Now,  stark  and  stiff,  lie  stretched  in  gore, 
And  ne'er  shall  rail  at  mitre  more.  — 
Thus  fared  it  when  I  left  the  fight 
With  the  good  Cause  and  Commons'  right.' — 

xiv. 
'  Disastrous  news  ! '  dark  Wycliffe  said  ; 
Assumed  despondence  bent  his  head, 
While  troubled  joy  was  in  his  eye, 
The  well-feigned  sorrow  to  belie.  — 
'  Disastrous  news  !  —  when  needed  most, 
Told  ye  not  that  your  chiefs  were  lost  ? 
Complete  the  woful  tale  and  say 
Who  fell  upon  that  fatal  day, 
What  leaders  of  repute  and  name 
Bought  by  their  death  a  deathless  fame. 
If  such  my  direst  foeman's  doom, 
My  tears  shall  dew  his  honored  tomb.  — 
No  answer  ?  —  Friend,  of  all  our  host, 
Thou  know'st  whom  Tshould  hate  the  most, 
Whom  thou  too  once  wert  wont  to  hate, 
Yet  leavest  me  doubtful  of  his  fate.'  — 
With  look  unmoved  —  '  Of  friend  or  foe, 


ROKEBY. 


277 


Aught,'  answered  Bertram,  'wouldst  thou 

know, 
Demand  in  simple  terms  and  plain, 
A  soldier's  answer  shalt  thou  gain ; 
For  question  dark  or  riddle  high 
I  have  nor  judgment  nor  reply.' 


The  wrath  his  art  and  fear  suppressed 
Now  blazed  at  once  in  Wycliffe's  breast. 


And  brave  from  man  so  meanly  born 
Roused  his  hereditary  scorn. 
;  Wretch  !  hast  thou  paid  thy  bloody  debt  ? 
Philip  of  Mortham,  lives  he  yet  ? 
False  to  thy  patron  or  thine  oath, 
Traitorous  or  perjured,  one  or  both. 
Slave  !  hast  thou  kept  thy  promise  plight. 
To  slay  thy  leader  in  the  fight  ? ' 
Then  from  his  seat  the  soldier  sprung, 
And  Wycliffe's  hand  he  strongly  wrung  ; 


78 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL   WORKS. 


His  grasp,  as  hard  as  glove  of  mail, 
Forced  the  red  blood-drop  from  the  nail  — 
1  A  health  ! '  he  cried ;  and  ere  he  quaffed 
Flung    from    him    Wycliffe's     hand     and 

laughed  — 
1  Now,  Oswald  Wycliffe,  speaks  thy  heart ! 
Now  play'st  thou  well  thy  genuine  part ! 
Worthy,  but  for  thy  craven  fear, 
Like  me  to  roam  a  buccaneer. 
What  reck'st  thou  of  the  Cause  divine, 
If  Mortham's  wealth  and  lands  be  thine  ? 
What  carest  thou  for  beleaguered  York, 
If  this  good  hand  have  done  its  work  ? 
Or  what  though  Fairfax  and  his  best 
Are  reddening  Marston's  swarthy  breast, 
If  Philip  Mortham  with  them  lie" 
Lending  his  life-blood  to  the  dye  ?  — 
Sit,  then  !  and  as  mid  comrades  free 
Carousing  after  victory, 
When  tales  are  told  of  blood  and  fear 
That  boys  and  women  shrink  to  hear, 
From  point  to  point  I  frankly  tell 
The  deed  of  death  as  it  befell. 


'  When  purposed  vengeance  I  forego, 

Term  me  a  wretch,  nor  deem  me  foe ; 

And  when  an  insult  I  forgive, 

Then  brand  me  as  a  slave  and  live !  — 

Philip  of  Mortham  is  with  those 

Whom  Bertram  Risingham  calls  foes ; 

Or  whom  more  sure  revenge  attends, 

If  numbered  with  ungrateful  friends. 

As  was  his  wont,  ere  battle  glowed, 

Along  the  marshalled  ranks  he  rode, 

And  wore  his  visor  up  the  while. 

I  saw  his  melancholy  smile 

When,  full  opposed  in  front,  he  knew 

Where  Rokeby's  kindred  banner  flew. 

'And  thus,"  he  said, "  will  friends  divide !  " — 

I  heard,  and  thought  how  side  by  side 

We  two  had  turned  the  battle's  tide 

In  many  a  well-debated  field    • 

Where  Bertram's  breast  was  Philip's  shield. 

I  thought  on  Darien's  deserts  pale 

Where  death  bestrides  the  evening  gale ; 

How  o'er  my  friend  my  cloak  I  threw, 

And  fenceless  faced  the  deadly  dew ; 

I  thought  on  Quariana's  cliff 

Where,  rescued  from  our  foundering  skiff, 

Through  the  white  breakers'  wrath  I  bore 

Exhausted  Mortham  to  the  shore ; 

And,  when  his  side  an  arrow  found, 

I  sucked  the  Indian's  venomed  wound. 

These  thoughts  like  torrents  rushed  along, 

To  sweep  away  my  purpose  strong. 

XVII. 

4  Hearts  are  not  flint,  and  flints  are  rent ; 
Hearts  are  not  steel,  and  steel  is  bent. 


When  Mortham  bade  me,  as  of  yore, 
Be  near  him  in  the  battle's  roar, 
I  scarcely  saw  the  spears  laid  low, 
I  scarcely  heard  the  trumpets  blow ; 
Lost  was  the  war  in  inward  strife, 
Debating  Mortham's  death  or  life. 
'T  was  then  I  thought  how,  lured  to  come 
As  partner  of  his  wealth  and  home, 
Years  of  piratic  wandering  o'er, 
With  him  I  sought  our  native  shore. 
But  Mortham's  lord  grew  far  estranged 
From  the  bold  heart  with  whom  he  ranged; 
Doubts,  horrors,  superstitious  fears, 
Saddened  and  dimmed  descending  years  ; 
The  wily  priests  their  victim  sought, 
And    damned    each    free-born    deed    and 

thought. 
Then  must  I  seek  another  home, 
My  license  shook  his  sober  dome  ; 
If  gold  he  gave,  in  one  wild  day 
I  revelled  thrice  the  sum  away. 
An  idle  outcast  then  I  strayed, 
Unfit  for  tillage  or  for  trade. 
Deemed,  like  the  steel  of  rusted  lance, 
Useless  and  dangerous  at  once. 
The  women  feared  my  hardy  look, 
At  my  approach  the  peaceful  shook ; 
The  merchant  saw  my  glance  of  flame, 
And  locked  his  hoards  when  Bertram  came  ; 
Each  child  of  coward  peace  kept  far 
From  the  neglected  son  of  war. 

XVIII. 

'  But  civil  discord  gave  the  call, 
And  made  my  trade  the  trade  of  all. 
By  Mortham  urged,  I  came  again 
His  vassals  to  the  fight  to  train. 
What  guerdon  waited  on  my  care  ? 
I  could  not  cant  of  creed  or  prayer ; 
Sour  fanatics  each  trust  obtained, 
And  I,  dishonored  and  disdained, 
Gained  but  the  high  and  happy  lot 
In  these  poor  arms  to  front  the  shot !  — 
All  this  thou  know'st,  thy  gestures  tell ; 
Yet  hear  it  o'er  and  mark  it  well. 
'T  is  honor  bids  me  now  relate 
Each  circumstance  of  Mortham's  fate. 


XIX. 

1  Thoughts,  from  the  tongue  that  slowly  part, 
Glance  quick  as  lightning  through  the  heart. 
As  my  spur  pressed  my  courser's  side, 
Philip  of  Mortham's  cause  was  tried, 
And  ere  the  charging  squadrons  mixed 
His  plea  was  cast,  his  doom  was  fixed. 
I  watched  him  through  the  doubtful  fray, 
That  changed  as  March's  moody  day, 
Till,  like  a  stream  that  bursts  its  bank, 
Fierce  Rupert  thundered  on  our  flank. 


ROKEBY. 


'Twas  then,  midst  tumult,  smoke,  and  strife, 
Where  each  man  fought  for  death  or  life, 
'T  was  then  I  fired  my  petronel, 
And  Mortham,  steed  and  rider,  fell. 
One  dying  look  he  upward  cast, 
Of  wrath  and  anguish  —  't  was  his  last. 
Think  not  that  there  I  stopped,  to  view 
What  of  the  battle  should  ensue  ; 
But  ere  I  cleared  that  bloody  press, 
Our  northern  horse  ran  masterless  ; 
Monckton  and  Mitton  told  the  news 
How   troops   of   Roundheads    choked   the 

Ouse, 
And  many  a  bonny  Scot  aghast, 
Spurring  his  palfrey  northward,  past, 
Cursing  the  day  when  zeal  or  meed 
First  lured  their  Lesley  o'er  the  Tweed. 
Yet  when  I  reached  the  banks  of  Swale, 
Had  rumor  learned  another  tale ; 
With  his  barbed  horse,  fresh  tidings  say, 
Stout  Cromwell  has  redeemed  the  day : 
But  whether  false  the  news  or  true, 
Oswald,  I  reck  as  light  as  you.' 


xx. 

Not  then  by  Wycliffe  might  be  shown 
How  his  pride  startled  at  the  tone 
In  which  his  complice,  fierce  and  free, 
Asserted  guilt's  equality. 
In  smoothest  terms  his  speech  he  wove 


Of  endless  friendship,  faith,  and  love ; 
Promised  and  vowed  in  courteous  sort, 
But  Bertram  broke  professions  short. 
1  Wycliffe,  be  sure  not  here  I  stay, 
No,  scarcely  till  the  rising  day; 
Warned  by  the  legends  of  my  youth, 
I  trust  not  an  associate's  truth. 
Do  not  my  native  dales  prolong 
Of  Percy  Rede  the  tragic  song, 
Trained  forward  to  his  bloody  fall, 
By  Girsonfield,  that  treacherous  Hall  ? 
Oft  by  the  Pringle's  haunted  side 
The  shepherd  sees  his  spectre  glide. 
And  near  the  spot  that  gave  me  name, 
The  moated  mound  of  Risingham, 
Where  Reed  upon  her  margin  sees 
Sweet  Woodburne's  cottages  and  trees, 
Some  ancient  sculptor's  art  has  shown 
An  outlaw's  image  on  the  stone  ; 
Unmatched  in  strength,  a  giant  he, 
With  quivered  back  and  kirtled  knee. 
Ask  how  he  died,  that  hunter  bold, 
The  tameless  monarch  of  the  wold, 
And  age  and  infancy  can  tell 
By  brother's  treachery  he  fell. 
Thus  warned  by  legends  of  my  youth, 
I  trust  to  no  associate's  truth. 

XXI. 

'When  last  we  reasoned  of  this  deed, 
Naught,  I  bethink  me,  was  agreed, 


28o 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL    WORKS. 


Or  by  what  rule,  or  when,  or  where, 
The  wealth  of  Mortham  we  should  share ; 
Then  list  while  I  the  portion  name 
Our  differing  laws  give  each  to  claim. 
Thou,  vassal  sworn  to  England's  throne, 
Her  rules  of  heritage  must  own  ; 
They  deal  thee,  as  to  nearest  heir, 
Thy  kinsman's  lands  and  livings  fair, 
And  these  I  yield  :  —  do  thou  revere 
The  statutes  of  the  buccaneer. 
Friend  to  the  sea,  and  foeman  sworn 
To  all  that  on  her  waves  are  borne, 
When  falls  a  mate  in  battle  broil 
His  comrade  heirs  his  portioned  spoil ; 
When  dies  in  fight  a  daring  foe 
He  claims  his  wealth  who  struck  the  blow  ; 
And  either  rule  to  me  assigns 
Those  spoils  of  Indian  seas  and  mines 
Hoarded  in  Mortham's  caverns  dark  ; 
Ingot  of  gold  and  diamond  spark, 
Chalice  and  plate  from  churches  borne, 
And  gems  from  shrieking  beauty  torn, 
Each  string  of  pearl,  each  silver  bar, 
And  all  the  wealth  of  western  war. 
I  go  to  search  where,  dark  and  deep, 
Those  trans-Atlantic  treasures  sleep. 
Thou  must  along  —  for,  lacking  thee, 
The  heir  will  scarce  find  entrance  free ; 
And  then  farewell.     I  haste  to  try 
Each  varied  pleasure  wealth  can  buy  ; 
When  cloyed  each  wish,  these  wars  afford 
Fresh  work  for  Bertram's  restless  sword.' 

XXII. 

An  undecided  answer  hung 
On  Oswald's  hesitating  tongue. 
Despite  his  craft,  he  heard  with  awe 
This  ruffian  stabber  fix  the  law ; 
While  his  own  troubled  passions  veer 
Through  hatred,  joy,  regret,  and  fear :  — 
Joyed  at  the  soul  that  Bertram  flies, 
He  grudged  the  murderer's  mighty  prize, 
Hated  his  pride's  presumptuous  tone, 
And  feared  to  wend  with  him  alone. 
At  length,  that  middle  course  to  steer 
To  cowardice  and  craft  so  dear, 
4  His  charge,'  he  said,  '  would  ill  allow 
His  absence  from  the  fortress  now ; 
Wilfrid  on  Bertram  should  attend, 
His  son  should  journey  with  his  friend.' 

xxiii. 
Contempt  kept  Bertram's  anger  down, 
And  wreathed  to  savage  smile  his  frown. 
'  Wilfrid,  or  thou  —  't  is  one  to  me, 
Whichever  bears  the  golden  key. 
Yet  think  not  but  I  mark,  and  smile 
To  mark,  thy  poor  and  selfish  wile ! 
If  injury  from  me  you  fear, 
What,  Oswald  Wycliffe,  shields  thee  here  ? 


I  've   sprung   from  walls    more    high    than 

these, 
I've  swam  through  deeper  streams   than 

Tees. 
Might  I  not  stab  thee  ere  one  yell 
Could  rouse  the  distant  sentinel  ? 
Start  not  —  it  is  not  my  design, 
But,  if  it  were,  weak  fence  were  thine  ; 
And,  trust  me  that  in  time  of  need 
This  hand  hath  done  more  desperate  deed. 
Go,  haste  and  rouse  thy  slumbering  son ; 
Time  calls,  and  I  must  needs  be  gone." 

XXIV. 

Naught  of  his  sire's  ungenerous  part 
Polluted  Wilfrid's  gentle  heart, 
A  heart  too  soft  from  early  life 
To  hold  with  fortune  needful  strife. 
His  sire,  while  yet  a  hardier  race 
Of  numerous  sons  were  Wycliffe's  grace, 
On  Wilfrid  set  contemptuous  brand 
For  feeble  heart  and  forceless  hand ; 
But  a  fond  mother's  care  and  joy 
Were  centred  in  her  sickly  boy. 
No  touch  of  childhood's  frolic  mood 
Showed  the  elastic  spring  of  blood  ; 
Hour  after  hour  he  loved  to  pore 
On  Shakespeare's  rich  and  varied  lore, 
But  turned  from  martial  scenes  and  light, 
From  Falstaff's  feast  and  Percy's  fight, 
To  ponder  Jaques'  moral  strain, 
And  muse  with  Hamlet,  wise  in  vain, 
And  weep  himself  to  soft  repose 
O'er  gentle  Desdemona's  woes. 

XXV. 

In  youth  he  sought  not  pleasures  found 
By  youth  in  horse  and  hawk  and  hound, 
But  loved  the  quiet  joys  that  wake 
By  lonely  stream  and  silent  lake  ; 
In  Deepdale's  solitude  to  lie, 
Where  all  is  cliff  and  copse  and  sky  ; 
To  climb  Catcastle's  dizzy  peak, 
Or  lone  Pendragon's  mound  to  seek. 
Such  was  his  wont ;  and  there  his  dream 
Soared  on  some  wild  fantastic  theme 
Of  faithful  love  or  ceaseless  spring, 
Till  Contemplation's  wearied  wing 
The  enthusiast  could  no  more  sustain, 
And  sad  he  sunk  to  earth  again. 


XXVI. 

He  loved  —  as  many  a  lay  can  tell, 
Preserved  in  Stanmore's  lonely  dell ; 
For  his  was  minstrel's  skill,  he  caught 
The  art  unteachable,  untaught ; 
He  loved  — his  soul  did  nature  frame 


ROKEBY. 


28l 


For  love,  and  fancy  nursed  the  flame  ; 
Vainly  he  loved  —  for  seldom  swain 
Of  such  soft  mould  is  loved  again  ; 
Silent  he  loved  —  in  every  gaze 
Was  passion,  friendship  in  his  phrase 
So  mused  his  life  away  —  till  died 
His  brethren  all,  their  father's  pride. 
Wilfrid  is  now  the  only  heir 
Of  all  his  stratagems  and  care, 
And  destined  darkling  to  pursue 
Ambition's  maze  by  Oswald's  clue. 


XXVII. 

Wilfrid  must  love  and  woo  the  bright 
Matilda,  heir  of  Rokeby's  knight. 
To  love  her  was  an  easy  hest, 
The  secret  empress  of  his  breast ; 
To  woo  her  was  a  harder  task 
To  one  that  durst  not  hope  or  ask. 
Yet  all  Matilda  could  she  gave 
In  pity  to  her  gentle  slave; 
Friendship,  esteem,  and  fair  regard, 
And  praise,  the  poet's  best  reward  ! 
She  read  the  tales  his  taste  approved, 
And  sung  the  lays  he  framed  or  loved ; 
Yet,  loath  to  nurse  the  fatal  flame 
Of  hopeless  love  in  friendship's  name, 
In  kind  caprice  she  oft  withdrew 
The  favoring  glance  to  friendship  due, 
Then  grieved  to  see  her  victim's  pain, 
And  gave  the  dangerous  smiles  again. 

XXVIII. 

So  did  the  suit  of  Wilfrid  stand 

When   war's    loud    summons   waked    the 

land. 
Three  banners,  floating  o'er  the  Tees, 
The  woe-foreboding  peasant  sees  ; 
In  concert  oft  they  braved  of  old 
The  bordering  Scot's  incursion  bold : 
Frowning  defiance  in  their  pride, 
Their  vassals  now  and  lords  divide. 
From  his  fair  hall  on  Greta  banks. 
The  Knight  of  Rokeby  led  his  ranks, 
To  aid  the  valiant  northern  earls 
Who  drew  the  sword  for  royal  Charles. 
Mortham,  by  marriage  near  allied,  — 
His  sister  had  been  Rokeby's  bride, 
Though  long  before  the  civil  fray 
In  peaceful  grave  the  lady  lay,  —  ♦ 

Philip  of  Mortham  raised  his  band, 
And  marched  at  Fairfax's  command ; 
While  Wycliffe,  bound  by  many  a  train 
Of  kindred  art  with  wily  Vane, 
Less  prompt  to  brave  the  bloody  field, 
Made  Barnard's  battlements  his  shield, 
Secured  them  with  his  Lunedale  powers, 
And  for  the  Commons  held  the  towers. 


XXIX. 

The  lovely  heir  of  Rokeby's  Knight 
Waits  in  his  halls  the  event  of  fight ; 
For  England's  war  revered  the  claim 
Of  every  unprotected  name, 
And  spared  amid  its  fiercest  rage 
Childhood  and  womanhood  and  age. 
But  Wilfrid,  son  to  Rokeby's  foe, 
Must  the  dear  privilege  forego, 
By  Greta's  side  in  evening  gray, 
To  steal  upon  Matilda's  way, 
Striving  with  fond  hypocrisy 
For  careless  step  and  vacant  eye  ; 
Calming  each  anxious  look  and  glance, 
To  give  the  meeting  all  to  chance, 
Or  framing  as  a  fair  excuse 
The  book,  the  pencil,  or  the  muse ; 
Something  to  give,  to  sing,  to  say, 
Some  modern  tale,  some  ancient  lay. 
Then,  while  the  longed-for  minutes  last,  — 
Ah  !  minutes  quickly  over-past !  — 
Recording  each  expression  free 
Of  kind  or  careless  courtesy, 
Each  friendly  look,  each  softer  tone, 
As  food  for  fancy  when  alone. 
All  this  is  o'er  —  but  still  unseen 
Wilfrid  may  lurk  in  Eastwood  green, 
To  watch  Matilda's  wonted  round, 
While  springs  his  heart  at  every  sound. 
She  comes  !  —  'tis  but  a  passing  sight, 
Yet  serves  to  cheat  his  weary  night ; 
She  comes  not  —  he  will  wait  the  hour 
When  her  lamp  lightens  in  the  tower ; 
'T  is  something  yet  if,  as  she  past, 
Her  shade  is  o'er  the  lattice  cast. 
'  What  is  my  life,  my  hope  ? '  he  said ; 
'  Alas  !  a  transitory  shade.' 

XXX. 

Thus  wore  his  life,  though  reason  strove 
For  mastery  in  vain  with  love, 
Forcing  upon  his  thoughts  the  sum 
Of  present  woe  and  ills  to  come, 
While  still  he  turned  impatient  ear 
From  Truth's  intrusive  voice  severe. 
Gentle,  indifferent,  and  subdued, 
In  all  but  this  unmoved  he  viewed 
Each  outward  change  of  ill  and  good  : 
But  Wilfrid,  docile,  soft,  and  mild. 
Was  Fancy's  spoiled  and  wayward  child ; 
In  her  bright  car  she  bade  him  ride, 
With  one  fair  form  to  grace  his  side, 
Or,  in  some  wild  and  lone  retreat, 
Flung  her  high  spells  around  his  seat, 
Bathed  in  her  dews  his  languid  head, 
Her  fairy  mantle  o'er  him  spread, 
For  him  her  opiates  gave  to  flow, 
Which  he  who  tastes  can  ne'er  forego, 
And  placed  him  in  her  circle,  free 


282 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL   WORKS. 


From  every  stern  reality, 

Till  to  the  Visionary  seem 

Her  day-dreams  truth,  and  truth  a  dream. 

XXXI. 

Woe  to  the  youth  whom  Fancy  gains, 
Winning  from  Reason's  hand  the  reins, 
Pity  and  woe  !  for  such  a  mind 
Is  soft,  contemplative,  and  kind  ; 
And  woe  to  those  who  train  such  youth. 
And  spare  to  press  the  rights  of  truth, 
The  mind  to  strengthen  and  anneal 
While  on  the  stithy  glows  the  steel ! 
Q  teach  him  while  your  lessons  last 
To  judge  the  present  by  the  past : 
Remind  him  of  each  wish  pursued, 
How  rich  it  glowed  with  promised  good ; 
Remind  him  of  each  wish  enjoyed, 
How  soon  his  hopes  possession  cloyed ! 
Tell  him  we  play  unequal  game 
Whene'er  we  shoot  by  Fancy's  aim ; 
And,  ere  he  strip  him  for  her  race, 
Show  the  conditions  of  the  chase  : 
Two  sisters  by  the  goal  are  set, 
Cold  Disappointment  and  Regret ; 
One  disenchants  the  winner's  eyes, 
And  strips  of  all  its  worth  the  prize. 
While  one  augments  its  gaudy  show, 
More  to  enhance  the  loser's  woe. 
The  victor  sees  his  fairy  gold 
Transformed  when  won  to  drossy  mould, 
But  still  the  vanquished  mourns  his  loss, 
And  rues  as  gold  that  glittering  dross. 

XXXII. 

More    wouldst    thou    know  —  yon    tower 

survey, 
Yon  couch  unpressed  since  parting  day, 
Yon  untrimmed  lamp,  whose  yellow  gleam 
Is  mingling  with  the  cold  moonbeam, 
And  yon  thin  form  !  —  the  hectic  red 
On  his  pale  cheek  unequal  spread ; 
The  head  reclined,  the  loosened  hair, 
The  limbs  relaxed,  the  mournful  air.  — 
See,  he  looks  up  ;  — a  woful  smile 
Lightens  his  woe-worn  cheek  a  while,  — 
'T  is  Fancy  wakes  some  idle  thought, 
To  gild  the  ruin  she  has  wrought ; 
For,  like  the  bat  of  Indian  brakes, 
Her  pinions  fan  the  wound  she  makes, 
And,  soothing  thus  the  dreamer's  pain, 
She  drinks  his  life-blood  from  the  vein. 
Now  to  the  lattice  turn  his  eyes, 
Vain  hope  !  to  see  the  sun  arise. 
The  moon  with  clouds  is  still  o'ercast, 
Still  howls  by  fits  the  stormy  blast ; 
Another  hour  must  wear  away 
Ere  the  east  kindle  into  day, 
And  hark  !  to  waste  that  weary  hour, 
He  tries  the  minstrel's  magic  power. 


<&Ott0. 
TO   THE    MOON. 

Hail  to  thy  cold  and  clouded  beam, 

Pale  pilgrim  of  the  troubled  sky  ! 
Hail,  though  the  mists  that  o'er  thee  stream 

Lend  to  thy  brow  their  sullen  dye ! 
How  should  thy  pure  and  peaceful  eye 

Untroubled  view  our  scenes  below, 
Or  how  a  tearless  beam  supply 

To  light  a  world  of  war  and  woe ! 

Fair  Queen  !  I  will  not  blame  thee  now, 

As  once  by  Greta's  fairy  side ; 
Each  little  cloud  that  dimmed  thy  brow 

Did  then  an  angel's  beauty  hide. 
And  of  the  shades  I  then  could  chide 

Still  are  the  thoughts  to  memory  dear, 
For,  while  a  softer  strain  I  tried, 

They  hid  my  blush  and  calmed  my  fear. 

Then  did  I  swear  thy  ray  serene 

Was  formed  to  light  some  lonely  dell, 
By  two  fond  lovers  only  seen, 

Reflected  from  the  crystal  well ; 
Or  sleeping  on  their  mossy  cell, 

Or  quivering  on  the  lattice  bright, 
Or  glancing  on  their  couch,  to  tell 

'How  swiftly  wanes  the  summer  night ! 

XXXIV. 

He  starts  —  a  step  at  this  lone  hour  ! 

A  voice  !  —  his  father  seeks  the  tower, 

With  haggard  look  and  troubled  sense, 

Fresh  from  his  dreadful  conference. 

'  Wilfrid !  —  what,  not  to  sleep  addressed  ? 

Thou  hast  no  cares  to  chase  thy  rest. 

Mortham  has  fallen  on  Marston-moor; 

Bertram  brings  warrant  to  secure 

rlis  treasures,  bought  by  spoil  and  blood, 

For  the  state's  use  and  public  good. 

The  menials  will  thy  voice  obey  ; 

Let  his  commission  have  its  way, 

In  every  point,  in  every  word.' 

Then,  in  a  whisper,  —  '  Take  thy  sword  ! 

Bertram  is  —  what  I  must  not  tell. 

I  hear  his  hasty  step  —  farewell ! ' 


CANTO    SECOND. 


Far  in  the  chambers  of  the  west, 
The  gale  had  sighed  itself  to  rest ; 
The  moon  was  cloudless  now  and  clear, 
But  pale  and  soon  to  disappear. 


ROKEBY. 


283 


The  thin  gray  clouds  waxed  dimly  light 
On  Brusleton  and  Houghton  height ; 
And  the  rich  dale  that  eastward  lay 
Waited  the  wakening  touch  of  day, 
To  give  its  woods  and  cultured  plain, 
And  towers  and  spires,  to  light  again. 
But,  westward,  Stanmore's  shapeless  swell, 
And  Lunedale  wild,  and  Kelton-fell, 
And  rock-begirdled  Gilmanscar, 
And  Arkingarth,  lay  dark  afar  ; 
While,  as  a  livelier  twilight  falls, 
Emerge  proud  Barnard's  bannered  walls. 
High  crowned  he  sits  in  dawning  pale, 
The  sovereign  of  the  lovely  vale. 


What  prospects  from  his  watch-tower  high 
Gleam  gradual  on  the  warder's  eye  !  — 
Far  sweeping  to  the  east,  he  sees 
Down  his  deep  woods  the  course  of  Tees, 
And  tracks  his  wanderings  by  the  steam 
Of  summer  vapors  from  the  stream ; 
And  ere  he  pace  his  destined  hour 
By  Brackenbury's  dungeon-tower, 
These  silver  mists  shall  melt  away 
And  dew  the  woods  with  glittering  spray. 
Then  in  broad  lustre  shall  be  shown 
That  mighty  trench  of  living  stone, 
And  each  huge  trunk  that  from  the  side 
Reclines  him  o'er  the  darksome  tide 


Where  Tees,  full  many  a  fathom  low, 
Wears  with  his  rage  no  common  foe ; 
For  pebbly  bank,  nor  sand-bed  here, 
Nor  clay-mound,  checks  his  fierce  career, 
Condemned  to  mine  a  channelled  way 
O'er  solid  sheets  of  marble  gray. 

in. 

Nor  Tees  alone  in  dawning  bright 

Shall  rush  upon  the  ravished  sight; 

But  many  a  tributary  stream 

Each  from  its  own  dark  dell  shall  gleam : 

Staindrop,  who  from  her  sylvan  bowers 

Salutes  proud  Raby's  battled  towers ; 

The  rural  brook  of  Egliston, 

And  Balder,  named  from  Odin's  son ; 

And  Greta,  to  whose  banks  ere  long 

We  lead  the  lovers  of  the  song ; 

And  silver  Lune  from  Stanmore  wild, 

And  fairy  Thorsgill's  murmuring  child, 

And  last  and  least,  but  loveliest  still, 

Romantic  Deepdale's  slender  rill. 

Who  in  that  dim-wood  glen  hath  strayed, 

Yet  longed  for  Roslin's  magic  glade  ? 

Who,   wandering    there,   hath    sought    to 

change 
Even  for  that  vale  so  stern  and  strange 
Where  Cartland's  crags,  fantastic  rent, 
Through  her  green  copse  like  spires  are 

sent  ? 


;84 


SCOTT S  POETICAL    WORKS. 


Yet,  Albin,  yet  the  praise  be  thine, 

Thy  scenes  and  story  to  combine  ! 

Thou  bid'st  him  who  by  Roslin  strays 

List  to  the  deeds  of  other  days ; 

Mid    Cartland's    crags    thou    show'st    the 

cave, 
The  refuge  of  thy  champion  brave  ; 
Giving  each  rock  its  storied  tale, 
Pouring  a  lay  for  every  dale, 
Knitting,  as  with  a  moral  band, 
Thy  native  legends  with  thy  land, 
To  lend  each  scene  the  interest  high 
Which  genius  beams  from  Beauty's  eye. 


IV. 

Bertram  awaited  not  the  sight 
Which  sunrise  shows  from  Barnard's  height, 
But  from  the  towers,  preventing  day, 
With  Wilfrid  took  his  early  way, 
While  misty  dawn  and  moonbeam  pale 
Still  mingled  in  the  silent  dale. 
By  Barnard's  bridge  of  stately  stone 
The  southern  bank  of  Tees  tney  won ; 
Their  winding  path  then  eastward  cast, 
And  Egliston's  gray  ruins  passed  ; 
Each  on  his  own  deep  visions  bent, 
Silent  and  sad  they  onward  went. 
Well  may  you  think  that  Bertram's  mood 
To  Wilfrid  savage  seemed  and  rude ; 
Well  may  you  think  bold  Risingham 
Held  Wilfrid  trivial,  poor,  and  tame  ; 
And  small  the  intercourse,  I  ween, 
Such  uncongenial  souls  between. 


Stern  Bertram  shunned  the  nearer  way 
Through  Rokeby's  park  and  chase  that  lay, 
And,  skirting  high  the  valley's  ridge, 
They  crossed  by  Greta's  ancient  bridge, 
Descending  where  her  waters  wind 
Free  for  a  space  and  unconfined 
As,    'scaped    from    Brignall's    dark-wood 

glen, 
She  seeks  wild  Mortham's  deeper  den. 
There,  as  his  eye  glanced  o'er  the  mound 
Raised  by  that  Legion  long  renowned 
Whose  votive  shrine  asserts  their  claim 
Of  pious,  faithful,  conquering  fame, 
1  Stern  sons  of  war  ! '  sad  Wilfrid  sighed. 
'  Behold  the  boast  of  Roman  pride  ! 
What  now  of  all  your  toils  are  known  ? 
A  grassy  trench,  a  broken  stone  ! '  — 
This  to  himself ;  for  moral  strain 
To  Bertram  were  addressed  in  vain. 


Of  different  mood  a  deeper  sigh 

Awoke  when  Rokeby's  turrets  high 

Were  northward  in  the  dawning  seen 

To  rear  them  o'er  the  thicket  green. 

O  then,  though  Spenser's  self  had  strayed 

Beside  him  through  the  lovely  glade, 

Lending  his  rich  luxuriant  glow 

Of  fancy  all  its  charms  to  show, 

Pointing  the  stream  rejoicing  free 

As  captive  set  at  liberty, 

Flashing  her  sparkling  waves  abroad, 


ROKEBY. 


285 


And  clamoring  joyful  on  her  road ; 
Pointing  where,  up  the  sunny  banks, 
The  trees  retire  in  scattered  ranks, 
Save  where,  advanced  before  the  rest, 
On  knoll  or  hillock  rears  his  crest, 
Lonely  and  huge,  the  giant  Oak, 
As  champions  when  their  band  is  broke 
Stand  forth  to  guard  the  rearward  post, 
The  bulwark  of  the  scattered  host  — 
All  this  and  more  might  Spenser  say, 
Yet  waste  in  vain  his  magic  lay, 
While  Wilfrid  eyed  the  distant  tower 
Whose  lattice  lights  Matilda's  bower. 


VII. 

The  open  vale  is  soon  passed  o'er, 
Kokeby,  though  nigh,  is  seen  no  more ; 
Sinking  mid  Greta's  thickets  deep, 
A  wild  and  darker  course  they  keep, 
A  stern  and  lone  yet  lovely  road 
As  e'er  the  foot  of  minstrel  trode ! 
Broad  shadows  o'er  their  passage  fell, 
Deeper  and  narrower  grew  the  dell ; 
It  seemed  some  mountain,  rent  and  riven, 
A  channel  for  the  stream  had  given, 
So  high  the  cliffs  of  limestone  gray 
Hung  beetling  o'er  the  torrent's  way, 
Yielding  along  their  rugged  base 
A  flinty  footpath's  niggard  space, 
Where  he  who  winds  'twixt  rock  and  wave 
May  hear  the  headlong  torrent  rave, 
And  like  a  steed  in  frantic  fit, 
That  flings  the  froth  from  curb  and  bit, 
May  view  her  chafe  her  waves  to  spray 
O'er  every  rock  that  bars  her  way, 
Till  foam-dobes  on  her  eddies  ride, 
Thick  as  the  schemes  of  human  pride 
That  down  life's  current  drive  amain, 
As  frail,  as  frothy,  and  as  vain  ! 


VIII. 

The  cliffs  that  rear  their  haughty  head 
High  o'er  the  river's  darksome  bed 
Were  now  all  naked,  wild,  and  gray, 
Now  waving  all  with  greenwood  spray  ; 
Here  trees  to  every  crevice  clung 
And  o'er  the  dell  their  branches  hung; 
And  there,  all  splintered  and  uneven, 
The  shivered  rocks  ascend  to  heaven ; 
Oft,  too,  the  ivy  swathed  their  breast 
And  wreathed  its  garland  round  their  crest, 
yOx  from  the  spires  bade  loosely  flare 
Its  tendrils  in  the  middle  air. 
As  pennons  wont  to  wave  of  old 
O'er  the  high  feast  of  baron  bold, 
When  revelled  loud  the  feudal  rout 
And  the  arched  halls  returned  their  shout, 
Such  and  more  wild  is  Greta's  roar, 
And  such  the  echoes  frorr       **  shore, 


And  so  the  ivied  banners  gleam, 
Waved  wildly  o'er  the  brawling  stream. 

IX. 

Now  from  the  stream  the  rocks  recede, 

But  leave  between  no  sunny  mead, 

No,  nor  the  spot  of  pebbly  sand 

Oft  found  by  such  a  mountain  strand, 

Forming  such  warm  and  dry  retreat 

As  fancy  deems  the  lonely  seat 

Where  hermit,  wandering  from  his  cell, 

His  rosary  might  love  to  tell. 

But  here  'twixt  rock  and  river  grew 

A  dismal  grove  of  sable  yew, 

With  whose  sad  tints  were  mingled  seen 

The  blighted  fir's  sepulchral  green. 

Seemed  that  the  trees  iheir  shadows  cast 

The  earth  that  nourished  them  to  blast ; 

For  never  knew  that  swarthy  grove 

The  verdant  hue  that  fairies  love, 

Nor  wilding  green  nor  woodland  flower 

Arose  within  its  baleful  bower : 

The  dank  and  sable  earth  receives 

Its  only  carpet  from  the  leaves 

That,  from  the  withering  branches  cast, 

Bestrewed  the  ground  with  every  blast. 

Though  now  the  sun  was  o'er  the  hill, 

In  this  dark  spot  'twas  twilight  still, 

Save  that  on  Greta's  farther  side 

Some  straggling  beams  through  copsewood 

glide  ; 
And  wild  and  savage  contrast  made 
That  dingle's  deep  and  funeral  shade 
With  the  bright  tints  of  early  day, 
Which,  glimmering  through  the  ivy  spray, 
On  the  opposing  summit  lay. 


x. 

The  lated  peasant  shunned  the  dell ; 

For  Superstition  wont  to  tell 

Of  many  a  grisly  sound  and  sight, 

Scaring  its  path  at  dead  of  night. 

When  Christmas  logs  blaze  high  and  wide 

Such  wonders  speed  the  festal  tide, 

While  Curiosity  and  Fear, 

Pleasure  and  Pain,  sit  crouching  near, 

Till  childhood's  cheek  no  longer  glows, 

And  village  maidens  lose  the  rose. 

The  thrilling  interest  rises  higher, 

The  circle  closes  nigh  and  nigher, 

And  shuddering  glance  is  cast  behind, 

As  louder  moans  the  wintry  wind. 

Believe  that  fitting  scene  was  laid 

For  such  wild  tales  in  Mortham  glade  ; 

For  who  had  seen  on  Greta's  side 

By  that  dim  light  fierce  Bertram  stride, 

In  such  a  spot,  at  such  an  hour,  — 

If  touched  by  Superstition's  power, 

Might  well  have  deemed  that  Hell  had  given 


286 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL    WORKS. 


A  murderer's  ghost  to  upper  heaven, 
While  Wilfrid's  form  had  seemed  to  glide 
Like  his  pale  victim  by  his  side. 

XI. 

Nor  think  to  village  swains  alone 
Are  these  unearthly  terrors  known, 
For  not  to  rank  nor  sex  confined 
Is  this  vain  ague  of  the  mind  ; 
Hearts  firm  as  steel,  as  marble  hard, 
'Gainst  faith  and  love  and  pity  barred, 
Have  quaked,  like  aspen  leaves  in  May, 
Beneath  its  universal  sway. 
Bertram  had  listed  many  a  tale 
Of  wonder  in  his  native  dale, 
That  in  his  secret  soul  retained 
The  credence  they  in  childhood  gained  : 
Nor  less  his  wild  adventurous  youth 
Believed  in  every  legend's  truth  ; 
Learned  when  beneath  the  tropic  gale 
Full  swelled  the  vessel's  steady  sail, 
And  the  broad  Indian  moon  her  light 
Poured  on  the  watch  of  middle  night, 
When  seamen  love  to  hear  and  tell 
Of  portent,  prodigy,  and  spell : 
What  gales  are  sold  on  Lapland's  shore, 
How  whistle  rash  bids  tempests  roar, 
Of  witch,  of  mermaid,  and  of  sprite, 
Of  Erick's  cap  and  Elmo's  light ; 
Or  of  that  Phantom  Ship  whose  form 
Shoots  like  a  meteor  through  the  storm 
When  the  dark  scud  comes  driving  hard, 
And  lowered  is  every  top-sail  yard, 
And  canvass  wove  in  earthly  looms 
No  more  to  brave  the  storm  presumes  ! 
Then  mid  the  war  of  sea  and  sky, 
Top  and  top-gallant  hoisted  high, 
Full  spread  and  crowded  every  sail, 
The  Demon  Frigate  braves  the  gale, 
And  well  the  doomed  spectators  know 
The  harbinger  of  wreck  and  woe. 


XII. 

Then,  too,  were  told  in  stifled  tone 
Marvels  and  omens  all  their  own ; 
How,  by  some  desert  isle  or  key 
Where  Spaniards  wrought  their  cruelty, 
Or  where  the  savage  pirate's  mood 
Repaid  it  home  in  deeds  of  blood, 
Strange  nightly  sounds  of  woe  and  fear 
Appalled  the  listening  buccaneer, 
Whose  light-armed  shallop  anchored  lay 
In  ambush  by  the  lonely  bay. 
The  groan  of  grief,  the  shriek  of  pain; 
Ring  from  the  moonlight  groves  of  cane  ; 
The  fierce  adventurer's  heart  they  scare, 
Who  wearies  memory  for  a  prayer, 
Curses  the  roadstead,  and  with  gale 
Of  early  morning  lifts  the  sail, 


To  give,  in  thirst  of  blood  and  prey, 
A  legend  for  another  bay. 

xin. 

Thus,  as  a  man,  a  youth,  a  child, 
Trained  in  the  mystic  and  the  wild, 
With  this  on  Bertram's  soul  at  times 
Rushed  a  dark  feeling  of  his  crimes  ; 
Such  to  his  troubled  soul  their  form 
As  the  pale  Death-ship  to  the  storm, 
And  such  their  omen  dim  and  dread 
As  shrieks  and  voices  of  the  dead. 
That  pang,  whose  transitory  force 
Hovered  'twixt  horror  and  remorse  — 
That  pang,  perchance,  his  bosom  pressed 
As  Wilfrid  sudden  he  addressed  : 
1  Wilfrid,  this  glen  is  never  trod 
Until  the  sun  rides  high  abroad, 
Yet  twice  have  I  beheld  to-day 
A  form  that  seemed  to  dog  our  way  ; 
Twice  from  my  glance  it  seemed  to  flee 
And  shroud  itself  by  cliff  or  tree. 
How  think'st  thou  ?  —  Is  our  path  waylaid  ? 
Or  hath  thy  sire  my  trust  b'etrayed  ? 
If  so '  —  Ere,  starting  from  his  dream 
That  turned  upon  a  gentler  theme, 
Wilfrid  had  roused  him  to  reply, 
Bertram  sprung  forward,  shouting  high, 
1  Whate'er  thou  art,  thou  now  shalt  stand  ! ' 
And  forth  he  darted,  sword  in  hand. 

xiv. 
,  As  bursts  the  levin  in  its  wrath, 
He  shot  him  down  the  sounding  path  ; 
Rock,  wood,  and  stream  rang  wildly  out 
To  his  loud  step  and  savage  shout. 
Seems  that  the  object  of  his  race 
Hath  scaled  the  cliffs  ;  his  frantic  chase 
Sidelong  he  turns,  and  now  't  is  bent 
Right  up  the  rock's  tall  battlement ; 
Straining  each  sinew  to  ascend, 
Foot,  hand,  and  knee  their  aid  must  lend. 
Wilfrid,  all  dizzy  with  dismay, 
Views  from  beneath  his  dreadful  way : 
Now  to  the  oak's  warped  roots  he  clings, 
Now  trusts  his  weight  to  ivy  strings  ; 
Now,  like  the  wild-goat,  must  he  dare 
An  unsupported  leap  in  air  ; 
Hid  in  the  shrubby  rain-course  now, 
You  mark  him  by  the  crashing  bough, 
And  by  his  corselet's  sullen  clank, 
And  by  the  stones  spurned  from  the  bank, 
And  by  the  hawk  scared  from  her  nest, 
And  raven's  croaking  o'er  their  guest, 
Who  deem  his  forfeit  limbs  shall  pay 
The  tribute  of  his  bold  essay. 

xv. 
See,  he  emerges  !  —  desperate  now 
All  farther  course  — yon  beetling  brow, 


ROKEBY. 


287 


In  craggy  nakedness  sublime, 
What  heart  or  foot  shall  dare  to  climb  ? 
It  bears  no  tendril  for  his  clasp, 
Presents  no  angle  to  his  grasp  : 
Sole  stay  his  foot  may  rest  upon 
Is  yon  earth-bedded  jetting  stone. 
Balanced  on  such  precarious  prop, 
He  strains  his  grasp  to  reach  the  top. 
Just  as  the  dangerous  stretch  he  makes, 
By  heaven,  his  faithless  footstool  shakes  ! 
Beneath  his  tottering  bulk  it  bends, 
It  sways,  it  loosens,  it  descends, 


And  when  he  issued  from  the  wood 
Before  the  gate  of  Mortham  stood. 
'Twas  a  fair  scene  !  the  sunbeam  lay 
On  battled  tower  and  portal  gray  ; 
And  from  the  grassy  slope  he  sees 
The  Greta  flow  to  meet  the  Tees 
Where,  issuing  from  her  darksome  bed, 
She  caught  the  morning's  eastern  red, 
And  through  the  softening  vale  below 
Rolled  her  bright  waves  in  rosy  glow, 
All  blushing  to  her  bridal  bed, 
Like  some  shy  maid  in  convent  bred, 


And  downward  holds  its  headlong  way, 
Crashing  o'er  rock  and  copsewood  spray ! 
Loud  thunders  shake  the  echoing  dell ! 
Fell  it  alone  ?  —  alone  it  fell. 
Just  on  the  very  verge  of  fate, 
The  hardy  Bertram's  falling  weight 
He  trusted  to  his  sinewy  hands, 
And  on  the  top  unharmed,  he  stands  ! 


XVI. 

Wilfrid  a  safer  path  pursued, 

At  intervals  where,  roughly  hewed, 

Rude  steps  ascending  from  the  dell 

Rendered,  the  cliffs  accessible. 

By  circuit  slow  he  thus  attained 

The  height  that  Risingham  had  gained, 


While  linnet,  lark,  and  blackbird  gay 
Sing  forth  her  nuptial  roundelay. 


XVII. 

'T  was  sweetly  sung  that  roundelay, 
That  summer  morn  shone  blithe  and  gay  ; 
But  morning  beam  and  wild-bird's  call 
Awaked  not  Mortham's  silent  hall. 
No  porter  by  the  low-browed  gate 
Took  in  the  wonted  niche  his  seat ; 
To  the  paved  court  no  peasant  drew; 
Waked  to  their  toil  no  menial  crew  ; 
The  maiden's  carol  was  not  heard, 
As  to  her  morning  task  she  fared  : 
In  the  void  offices  around 
Rung  not  a  hoof  nor  bayed  a  hound ; 


288 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL    WORKS. 


Nor  eager  steed  with  shrilling  neigh 
Accused  the  lagging  groom's  delay  ; 
Untrimmed,  undressed,  neglected  now. 
Was  alleyed  walk  and  orchard  bough  ; 
All  spoke  the  master's  absent  care, 
All  spoke  neglect  and  disrepair. 
South  of  the  gate  an  arrow  flight, 
Two  mighty  elms  their  limbs  unite, 
As  if  a  canopy  to  spread 
O'er  the  lone  dwelling  of  the  dead  ; 
For  their  huge  boughs  in  arches  bent 
Above  a  massive  monument, 
Carved  o'er  in  ancient  Gothic  wise 
With  many  a  scutcheon  and  device  : 
There,  spent  with  toil  and  sunk  in  gloom, 
Bertram  stood  pondering  by  the  tomb. 

XVIII. 

'  It  vanished  like  a  flitting  ghost ! 
Behind  this  tomb,'  he  said,  '  't  was  lost  — 
This  tomb  where  oft  I  deemed  lies  stored 
Of  Mortham's  Indian  wealth  the  hoard. 
'T  is  true,  the  aged  servants  said 
Here  his  lamented  wife  is  laid  ; 
But  weightier  reasons  may  be  guessed 
For  their  lord's  strict  and  stern  behest 
That  none  should  on  his  steps  intrude 
Whene'er  he  sought  this  solitude. 
An  ancient  mariner  I  knew, 
What  time  I  sailed  with  Morgan's  crew, 
Who  oft  mid  our  carousals  spake 
Of  Raleigh,  Frobisher,  and  Drake; 
Adventurous  hearts  !  who  bartered,  bold, 
Their  English  steel  for  Spanish  gold. 
Trust  not,  would  his  experience  say, 
Captain  or  comrade  with  your  prey, 
But  seek  some  charnel,  when,  at  full, 
The  moon  gilds  skeleton  and  skull  : 
There  dig  and  tomb  your  precious  heap, 
And  bid  the  dead  your  treasure  keep ; 
Sure  stewards  they,  if  fitting  spell 
Their  service  to  the  task  compel. 
Lacks  there  such  charnel  ?  —  kill  a  slave 
Or  prisoner  on  the  treasure-grave, 
And  bid  his  discontented  ghost 
Stalk  nightly  on  his  lonely  post. 
Such  was  his  tale.     Its  truth,  I  ween, 
Is  in  my  morning  vision  seen.' 

XIX. 

Wilfrid,  who  scorned  the  legend  wild, 
In  mingled  mirth  and  pity  smiled, 
Much  marvelling  that  a  breast  so  bold 
In  such  fond  tale  belief  should  hold, 
But  yet  of  Bertram  sought  to  know 
The  apparition's  form  and  show. 
The  power  within  the  guilty  breast, 
Oft  vanquished,  never  quite  suppressed, 
That  unsubdued  and  lurking  lies 
To  take  the  felon  by  surprise 


And  force  him,  as  by  magic  spell, 

In  his  despite  his  guilt  to  tell  — 

That  power  in  Bertram's  breast  awoke  : 

Scarce  conscious  he  was  heard,  he  spoke  : 

'  'T  was    Mortham's    form,    from    foot    to 

head! 
His  morion  with  the  plume  of  red, 
His   shape,   his   mien  —  't  was    Mortham, 

right 
As  when  I  slew  him  in  the  fight.'  — 
'  Thou    slay    him  ?  —  thou  ? '  —  With    con- 
scious start 
He  heard,  then  manned  his  haughty  heart  — 
1 1  slew  him  ?  —  I  !  —  I  had  forgot 
Thou,  stripling,  knew'st  not  of  the  plot. 
But  it  is  spoken  —  nor  will  I 
Deed  done  or  spoken  word  deny.     . 
I  slew  him  ;  I !  for  thankless  pride  ; 
'T  was  by  this  hand  that  Mortham  died.' 


xx. 

Wilfrid,  of  gentle  hand  and  heart, 

Averse  to  every  active  part 

B.ut  most  adverse  to  martial  broil, 

From  danger  shrunk  and  turned  from  toil  -. 

Yet  the  meek  lover  of  the  lyre 

Nursed  one  brave  spark  of  noble  fire  : 

Against  injustice,  fraud,  or  wrong 

His  blood  beat  high,  his  hand  waxed  strong. 

Not  his  the  nerves  that  could  sustain, 

Unshaken,  danger,  toil,  and  pain; 

But,  when  that  spark  blazed  forth  to  flame, 

He  rose  superior  to  his  frame. 

And  now  it  came,  that  generous  mood : 

And,  in  full  current  of  his  blood, 

On  Bertram  he  laid  desperate  hand, 

Placed  firm  his  foot,  and  drew  his  brand. 

1  Should  every  fiend  to  whom  thou'rt  sold 

Rise  in  thine  aid,  I  keep  my  hold.  — 

Arouse  there,  ho  !  take  spear  and  sword  ! 

Attach  the  murderer  of  your  lord  ! ' 


A  moment,  fixed  as  by  a  spell, 

Stood  Bertram  —  it  seemed  miracle, 

That  one  so  feeble,  soft,  and  tame 

Set  grasp  on  warlike  Risingham. 

But  when  he  felt  a  feeble  stroke 

The  fiend  within  the  ruffian  woke  ! 

To  wrench  the  sword  from  Wilfrid's  hand, 

To  dash  him  headlong  on  the  sand, 

Was  but  one  moment's  work,  —  one  more 

Had  drenched  the  blade  in  Wilfrid's  gore. 

But  in  the  instant  it  arose 

To  end  his  life,  his  love,  his  woes, 

A  warlike  form  that  marked  the  scene 

Presents  his  rapier  sheathed  between, 

Parries  the  fast-descending  blow, 

And  steps  'twixt  Wilfrid  and  his  foe  ; 


ROKEBY. 


289 


Nor  then  unscabbarded  his  brand, 
But,  sternly  pointing  with  his  hand, 
With  monarch's  voice  forbade  the  fight, 
And  motioned  Bertram  from  his  sight. 
1  Go,  and  repent,'  he  said,  'while  time 
Is  given  thee  ;  add  not  crime  to  crime.' 

XXII. 

Mute  and  uncertain  and  amazed, 
As  on  a  vision  Bertram  g:azed  ! 


'T  was  Mortham's  bearing,  bold  and  high, 

His  sinewy  frame,  his  falcon  eye, 

His  look  and  accent  of  command, 

The  martial  gesture  of  his  hand, 

His  stately  form,  spare-built  and  tall, 

His  war-bleached  locks  —  'twas  Mortham 

all. 
Through  Bertram's  dizzy  brain  career 
A  thousand  thoughts,  and  all  of  fear ; 
His  wavering  faith  received  not  quite 


19 


290 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL    WORKS. 


The  form  he  saw  as  Mortham's  sprite, 

But  more  he  feared  it  if  it  stood 

His  lord  in  living  flesh  and  blood. 

What  spectre  can  the  charnel  send, 

So  dreadful  as  an  injured  friend? 

Then,  too,  the  habit  of  command, 

Used  by  the  leader  of  the  band 

When  Risingham  for  many  a  day 

Had  marched  and  fought  beneath  his  sway, 

Tamed  him  —  and  with  reverted  face 

Backwards  he  bore  his  sullen  pace, 

Oft  stopped,  and  oft  on  Mortham  stared, 

And  dark  as  rated  mastiff  glared, 

But  when  the  tramp  of  steeds  was  heard 

Plunged  in  the  glen  and  disappeared; 

Nor  longer  there  the  warrior  stood, 

Retiring  eastward  through  the  wood, 

But  first  to  Wilfrid  warning  gives, 

1  Tell  thou  to  none  that  Mortham  lives.' 

XXIII. 

Still  rung  these  words  in  Wilfrid's  ear, 
Hinting  he  knew  not  what  of  fear, 
When  nearer  came  the  coursers'  tread, 
And,  with  his  father  at  their  head, 
Of  horsemen  armed  a  gallant  power 
Reined  up  their  steeds  before  the  tower. 
•  Whence  these  pale  looks,  my  son  ?  '   he 

said: 
1  Where 's    Bertram  ?     Why    that    naked 

blade  ? ' 
Wilfrid  ambiguously  replied  — 
For  Mortham's  charge  his  honor  tied  — 
1  Bertram  is  gone  —  the  villain's  word 
Avouched  him  murderer  of  his  lord  ! 
Even  now  we  fought  —  but  when  your  tread 
Announced  you  nigh,  the  felon  fled.' 
In  Wycliffe's  conscious  eye  appear 
A  guilty  hope,  a  guilty  fear; 
On  his  pale  brow  the  dewdrop  broke, 
And  his  lip  quivered  as  he  spoke  : 


XXIV. 

1  A  murderer !  —  Philip  Mortham  died 
Amid  the  battle's  wildest  tide. 
Wilfrid,  or  Bertram  raves  or  you  ! 
Yet,  grant  such  strange  confession  true, 
Pursuit  were  vain  —  let  him  fly  far  — 
Justice  must  sleep  in  civil  war.' 
A  gallant  youth  rode  near  his  side, 
Brave  Rokeby's  page,  in  battle  tried  ; 
That  morn  an  embassy  of  weight 
He  brought  to  Barnard's  castle  gate, 
And  followed  now  in  Wycliffe's  train 
An  answer  for  his  lord  to  gain. 
His  steed,  whose  arched  and  sable  neck 
An  hundred  wreaths  of  foam  bedeck, 
Chafed  not  against  the  curb  more  high 
Than  he  at  Oswald's  cold  reply; 


He  bit  his  lip,  implored  his  saint  — 
His  the  old  faith  — then  burst  restraint 


xxv. 

'  Yes  !  I  beheld  his  bloody  fall 
By  that  base  traitor's  dastard  ball, 
Just  when  I  thought  to  measure  sword, 
Presumptuous  hope  !  with  Mortham's  lord. 
And  shall  the  murderer  'scape  who  slew 
His  leader,  generous,  brave,  and  true  ? 
Escape,  while  on  the  dew  you  trace 
The  marks  of  his  gigantic  pace  ? 
No  !  ere  the  sun  that  dew  shall  dry, 
False  Risingham  shall  yield  or  die.  — 
Ring  out  the  castle  larum  bell ! 
Arouse  the  peasants  with  the  knell ! 
Meantime  disperse — ride,  gallants,  ride  ! 
Beset  the  wood  on  every  side. 
But  if  among  you  one  there  be 
That  honors  Mortham's  memory, 
Let  him  dismount  and  follow  me  ! 
Else  on  your  crests  sit  fear  and  shame, 
And  foul  suspicion  dog  your  name  ! ' 

xxvi. 

Instant  to  earth  young  Redmond  sprung ; 
Instant  on  earth  the  harness  rung 
Of  twenty  men  of  Wycliffe's  banjj, 
Who  waited  not  their  lord's  command. 
Redmond  his  spurs  from  buskins  drew, 
His  mantle  from  his  shoulders  threw, 
His  pistols  in  his  belt  he  placed, 
The  green-wood  gained,  the  footsteps  traced, 
Shouted  like  huntsman  to  his  hounds, 
;  To  cover,  hark ! '  —  and  in  he  bounds. 
Scarce  heard  was  Oswald's  anxious  cry, 
'  Suspicion  !  yes  —  pursue  him  —  fly  — 
But  venture  not  in  useless  strife 
On  ruffian  desperate  of  his  life  ; 
Whoever  finds  him  shoot  him  dead  ! 
Five  hundred  nobles  for  his  head  ! ' 


XXVII. 

The  horsemen  galloped  to  make  good 
Each  path  that  issued  from  the  wood. 
Loud  from  the  thickets  rung  the  shout 
Of  Redmond  and  his  eager  rout ; 
With  them  was  Wilfrid,  stung  with  ire, 
And  envying  Redmond's  martial  fire, 
And  emulous  of  fame.  —  But  where 
Is  Oswald,  noble  Mortham's  heir  ? 
He,  bound  by  honor,  law,  and  faith, 
Avenger  of  his  kinsman's  death  ?  — 
Leaning  against  the  elmin  tree, 
With  drooping  head  and  slackened  knee, 
And    clenched    teeth,    and     close-clasped 

hands, 
In  agony  of  soul  he  stands  ! 


ROKEBY. 


291 


His  downcast  eye  on  earth  is  bent, 
His  soul  to  every  sound  is  lent; 
For  in  each  shout  that  cleaves  the  air 
May  ring  discovery  and  despair. 

XXVIII. 

What  'vailed  it  him  that  brightly  played 
The  morning  sun  on  Mortham's  glade  ? 
All  seems  in  giddy  round  to  ride, 
Like  objects  on  a  stormy  tide 
Seen  eddying  by  the  moonlight  dim, 
Imperfectly  to  sink  and  swim. 
What  'vailed  it  that  the  fair  domain, 
Its  battled  mansion,  hill,  and  plain, 
On  which  the  sun  so  brightly  shone, 
Envied  so  long,  was  now  his  own  ? 
The  lowest  dungeon,  in  that  hour, 
Of  Brackenbury's  dismal  tower, 
Had  been  his  choice,  could  such  a  doom 
Have  opened  Mortham's  bloody  tomb  ! 
Forced,  too,  to  turn  unwilling  ear 
To  each  surmise  of  hope  or  fear, 
Murmured  among  the  rustics  round, 
Who  gathered  at  the  larum  sound, 
He  dare  not  turn  his  head  away, 
Even  to  look  up  to  heaven  to  pray, 
Or  call  on  hell  in  bitter  mood 
For  one  sharp  death-shot  from  the  wood  ! 

XXIX. 

At  length  o'erpast  that  dreadful  space, 

Back  straggling  came  the  scattered  chase 

Jaded  and  weary,  horse  and  man, 

Returned  the  troopers  one  by  one. 

Wilfrid  the  last  arrived  to  say 

All  trace  was  lost  of  Bertram's  way, 

Though  Redmond  still  up  Brignall  wood 

The  hopeless  quest  in  vain  pursued. 

O,  fatal  doom  of  human  race  ! 

What  tyrant  passions  passions  chase  ! 

Remorse  from  Oswald's  brow  is  gone, 

Avarice  and  pride  resume  their  throne  ; 

The  pang  of  instant  terror  by, 

They  dictate  thus  their  slave's  reply : 

XXX. 

1  Ay  —  let  him  range  like  hasty  hound  !    • 
And  if  the  grim  wolf's  lair  be  found, 
Small  is  my  care  how  goes  the  game 
With  Redmond  or  with  Risingham.  — 
Nay,  answer  not,  thou  simple  boy ! 
Thy  fair  Matilda,  all  so  coy 
To  thee,  is  of  another  mood 
To  that  bold  youth  of  Erin's  blood. 
Thy  ditties  will  she  freely  praise, 
And  pay  thy  pains  with  courtly  phrase  ; 
In  a  rough  path  will  oft  command  — 
Accept  at  least —  thy  friendly  hand  ; 
His  she  avoids,  or,  urged  and  prayed, 


Unwilling  takes  his  proffered  aid, 
While  conscious  passion  plainly  speaks 
In  downcast  look  and  blushing  cheeks. 
Whene'er  he  sings  will  she  glide  nigh, 
And  all  her  soul  is  in  her  eye ; 
Yet  doubts  she  still  to  tender  free 
The  wonted  words  of  courtesy. 
These  are  strong   signs  !  —  yet  wherefore 

sigh, 
And  wipe,  effeminate,  thine  eye  ? 
Thine  shall  she  be,  if  thou  attend 
The  counsels  of  thy  sire  and  friend. 


'  Scarce  wert  thou  gone,  when  peep  of  light 
Brought  genuine  news  of  Marston's  fight. 
Brave  Cromwell  turned  the  doubtful  tide, 
And  conquest  blessed  the  rightful  side  ; 
Three  thousand  cavaliers  lie  dead, 
Rupert  and  that  bold  Marquis  fled; 
Nobles  and  knights,  so  proud  of  late, 
Must  fine  for  freedom  and  estate. 
Of  these  committed  to  my  charge 
Is  Rokeby,  prisoner  at  large  ; 
Redmond  his  page  arrived  to  say 
He  reaches  Barnard's  towers  to-day. 
Right  heavy  shall  his  ransom  be 
Unless  that  maid  compound  with  thee  ! 
Go  to  her  now  —  be  bold  of  cheer 
While  her  soul  floats  'twixt  hope  and  fear ; 
It  is  the  very  change  of  tide, 
When  best  the  female  heart  is  tried  — 
Pride,  prejudice,  and  modesty, 
Are  in  the  current  swept  to  sea, 
And  the  bold  swain  who  plies  his  oar 
May  lightly  row  his  bark  to  shore.' 


Uokebg. 


CANTO    THIRD. 


The  hunting  tribes  of  air  and  earth 
Respect  the  brethren  of  their  birth  ; 
Nature,  who  loves  the  claim  of  kind, 
Less  cruel  chase  to  each  assigned. 
The  falcon,  poised  on  soaring  wing, 
Watches  the  wild-duck  by  the  spring ; 
The  slow-hound  wakes  the  fox's  lair ; 
The  greyhound  presses  on  the  hare ; 
The  eagle  pounces  on  the  lamb  ; 
The  wolf  devours  the  fleecy  dam : 
Even  tiger  fell  and  sullen  bear 
Their  likeness  and  their  lineage  spare  ; 
Man  only  mars  kind  Nature's  plan. 


292 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL   WORKS. 


And  turns  the  fierce  pursuit  on  man. 
Plying  war's  desultory  trade, 
Incursion,  flight,  and  ambuscade, 
Since  Nimrod,  Cush's  mighty  son, 
At  first  the  bloody  game  begun. 


The  Indian,  prowling  for  his  prey, 
Who  hears  the  settlers  track  his  way, 
And  knows  in  distant  forest  far 
Camp  his  red  brethren  of  the  war  — 
He,  when  each  double  and  disguise 
To  baffle  the  pursuit  he  tries, 
Low  crouching  now  his  head  to  hide 
Where   swampy   streams    through    rushes 

glide, 
Now  covering  with  the  withered  leaves 
The  foot-prints  that  the  dew  receives  — 
He,  skilled  in  every  sylvan  guile, 
Knows  not,  nor  tries,  such  various  wile 
As  Risingham  when  on  the  wind 
Arose  the  loud  pursuit  behind. 
In  Redesdale  his  youth  had  heard 
Each  art  her  wily  dalesman  dared, 
When  Rooken-edge  and  Redswair  high 
To  bugle  rung  and  blood-hound's  cry, 
Announcing  Jedwood-axe  and  spear, 
And  Lid'sdale  riders  in  the  rear ; 
And  well  his  venturous  life  had  proved 
The  lessons  that  his  childhood  loved. 


m. 

Oft  had  he  shown  in  climes  afar 
Each  attribute  of  roving  war  ; 
The  sharpened  ear,  the  piercing  eye, 
The  quick  resolve  in  danger  nigh  ; 
The  speed  that  in  the  flight  or  chase 
Outstripped  the  Charib's  rapid  race ; 
The  steady  brain,  the  sinewy  limb, 
To  leap,  to  climb,  to  dive,  to  swim ; 
The  iron  frame,  inured  to  bear 
Each  dire  inclemency  of  air, 
Nor  less  confirmed  to  undergo 
Fatigue's  faint  chill  and  famine's  throe. 
These  arts  he  proved,  his  life  to  save, 
In  peril  oft  by  land  and  wave, 
On  Arawaca's  desert  shore, 
Or  where  La  Plata's  billows  roar, 
When  oft  the  sons  of  vengeful  Spain 
Tracked  the  marauder's  steps  in  vain. 
These  arts,  in  Indian  warfare  tried, 
Must  save  him  now  by  Greta's  side. 


'T  was  then,  in  hour  of  utmost  need, 
He  proved  his  courage,  art,  and  speed. 
Now  slow  he  stalked  with  stealthy  pace, 
Now  started  forth  in  rapid  race, 


Oft  doubling  back  in  mazy  train 

To  blind  the  trace  the  dews  retain  ; 

Now  clomb  the  rocks  projecting  high 

To  baffle  the  pursuer's  eye  ; 

Now  sought  the  stream,  whose  brawling 

sound 
The  echo  of  his  footsteps  drowned. 
But  if  the  forest  verge  he  nears, 
There  trample  steeds,  and  glimmer  spears  ; 
If  deeper  down  the  copse  he  drew, 
He  heard  the  rangers'  loud  halloo, 
Beating  each  cover  while  they  came, 
As  if  to  start  the  sylvan  game. 
'T  was  then  —  like  tiger  close  beset 
At  every  pass  with  toil  and  net, 
'Countered  where'er  he  turns  his  glare 
By  clashing  arms  and  torches'  flare, 
Who  meditates  with  furious  bound 
To  burst  on  hunter,  horse  and  hound  — 
'T  was  then  that  Bertram's  soul  arose, 
Prompting  to  rush  upon  his  foes  : 
But  as  that  crouching  tiger,  cowed 
By  brandished  steel  and  shouting  crowd, 
Retreats  beneath  the  jungle's  shroud, 
Bertram  suspends  his  purpose  stern, 
And  crouches  in  the  brake  and  fern, 
Hiding  his  face  lest  foemen  spy 
The  sparkle  of  his  swarthy  eye. 


Then  Bertram  might  the  bearing  trace 
Of  the  bold  youth  who  led  the  chase  ; 
Who  paused  to  list  for  every  sound, 
Climbed  every  height  to  look  around, 
Then  rushing  on  with  naked  sword, 
Each  dingle's  bosky  depths  explored. 
'T  was  Redmond  —  by  the  azure  eye  ; 
'T  was  Redmond  —  by  the  locks  that  fly 
Disordered  from  his  glowing  cheek  ; 
Mien,   face,  and    form    young    Redmond 

speak. 
A  form  more  active,  light,  and  strong, 
Ne'er  shot  the  ranks  of  war  along  ; 
The  modest  yet  the  manly  mien 
Might  grace  the  court  of  maiden  queen  ; 
A  face  more  fair  you  well  might  find, 
For  Redmond's  knew  the  sun  and  wind. 
Nor  boasted,  from  their  tinge  when  free, 
The  charm  of  regularity  ; 
But  every  feature  had  the  power 
To  aid  the  expression  of  the  hour  : 
Whether  gay  wit  and  humor  sly 
Danced  laughing  in  his  light-blue  eye, 
Or  bended  brow  and  glance  of  fire 
And  kindling  cheek  spoke  Erin's  ire. 
Or  soft  and  saddened  glances  show 
Her  ready  sympathy  with  woe ; 
Or  in  that  wayward  mood  of  mind 
When  various  feelings  are  combined, 
When  joy  and  sorrow  mingle  near, 


ROKEBY. 


293 


And  hope's  bright  wings  are  checked  by  fear, 
And  rising  doubts  keep  transport  down, 
And  anger  lends  a  short-lived  frown  ; 
In  that  strange  mood  which  maids  approve 
Even  when  they  dare  not  call  it  love  — 
With  every  change  his  features  played, 
As  aspens  show  the  light  and  shade. 


VI. 

Well  Risingham  young  Redmond  knew 
And  much  he  marvelled  that  the  crew, 


But  Redmond  turned  a  different  way, 
And  the  bent  boughs  resumed  their  sway, 
And  Bertram  held  it  wise,  unseen, 
Deeper  to  plunge  in  coppice  green. 
Thus,  circled  in  his  coil,  the  snake, 
When  roving  hunters  beat  the  brake, 
Watches  with  red  and  glistening  eye, 
Prepared,  if  heedless  step  draw  nigh, 
With  forked  tongue  and  venomed  fang 
Instant  to  dart  the  deadly  pang ; 
But  if  the  intruders  turn  aside, 
Away  his  coils  unfolded  glide, 


Roused  to  revenge  bold  Mortham  dead 
Were  by  that  Mortham's  foeman  led  ; 
For  never  felt  his  soul  the  woe 
That  wails  a  generous  foeman  low. 
Far  less  that  sense  of  justice  strong 
That  wreaks  a  generous  foeman's  wrong. 
But  small  his  leisure  now  to  pause  ; 
Redmond  is  first,  whate'er  the  cause : 
And  twice  that  Redmond  came  so  near 
Where  Bertram  couched  like  hunted  deer, 
The  very  boughs  4iis  steps  displace 
Rustled  against  the  ruffian's  face, 
Who  desperate  twice  prepared  to  start, 
And  plunge  his  dagger  in  his  heart ! 


And  through  the  deep  savannah  wind, 
Some  undisturbed  retreat  to  find. 


VII. 

But  Bertram,  as  he  backward  drew, 
And  heard  the  loud  pursuit  renew, 
And  Redmond's  hollo  on  the  wind, 
Oft  muttered  in  his  savage  mind  — 
'  Redmond  O'Neale  !  were  thou  and  I 
Alone  this  day's  event  to  try, 
With  not  a  second  here  to  see 
But  the  gray  cliff  and  oaken  tree, 
That  voice  of  thine  that  shouts  so  loud 


294 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL   WORKS. 


Should  ne'er  repeat  its  summons  proud ! 
No !  nor  e'er  try  its  melting  power 
Again  in  maiden's  summer  bower.' 
Eluded,  now  behind  him  die 
Faint  and  more  faint  each  hostile  cry ; 
He  stands  in  Scargill  wood  alone, 
Nor  hears  he  now  a  harsher  tone 
Than  the  hoarse  cushat's  plaintive  cry, 
Or  Greta's  sound  that  murmurs  by ; 
And  on  the  dale,  so  lone  and  wild. 
The  summer  sun  in  quiet  smiled. 

VIII. 

He  listened  long  with  anxious  heart, 

Ear  bent  to  hear  and  foot  to  start, 

And,  while  his  stretched  attention  glows, 

Refused  his  weary  frame  repose. 

'T  was  silence  all  —  he  laid  him  down, 

Where  purple  heath  profusely  strown, 

And  throatwort  with  its  azure  bell, 

And  moss  and  thyme  his  cushion  swell. 

There,  spent  with  toil,  he  listless  eyed 

The  course  of  Greta's  playful  tide ; 

Beneath  her  banks  now  eddying  dun, 

Now  brightly  gleaming  to  the  sun, 

As,  dancing  over  rock  and  stone, 

In  yellow  light  her  currents  shone, 

Matching  in  hue  the  favorite  gem 

Of  Albin's  mountain-diadem. 

Then,  tired  to  watch  the  currents  play, 

He  turned  his  weary  eyes  away 

To  where  the  bank  opposing  showed 

Its    huge,   square    cliffs    through   shaggy 

wood. 
One,  prominent  above  the  rest, 
Reared  to  the  sun  its  pale  gray  breast ; 
Around  its  broken  summit  grew 
The  hazel  rude  and  sable  yew ; 
A  thousand  varied  lichens  dyed 
Its  waste  and  weather-beaten  side, 
And  round  its  rugged  basis  lay, 
By  time  or  thunder  rent  away, 
Fragments  that  from  its  frontlet  torn 
Were  mantled  now  by  verdant  thorn. 
Such  was  the  scene's  wild  majesty 
That  filled  stern  Bertram's  gazing  eye. 


In  sullen  mood  he  lay  reclined, 
Revolving  in  his  stormy  mind 
The  felon  deed,  the  fruitless  guilt, 
His  patron's  blood  by  treason  spilt ; 
A  crime,  it  seemed,  so  dire  and  dread 
That  it  had  power  to  wake  the  dead. 
Then,  pondering  on  his  life  betrayed 
By  Oswald's  art  to  Redmond's  blade, 
In  treacherous  purpose  to  withhold, 
So  seemed  it,  Mortham's  promised  gold, 
A  deep  and  full  revenge  he  vowed 


On  Redmond,  forward,  fierce,  and  proud  ; 
Revenge  on  Wilfrid  —  on  his  sire 
Redoubled  vengeance,  swift  and  dire  !  — 
If,  in  such  mood  —  as  legends  say, 
And  well  believed  that  simple  day  — 
The  Enemy  of  Man  has  power 
To  profit  by  the  evil  hour, 
Here  stood  a  wretch  prepared  to  change 
His  soul's  redemption  for  revenge  ! 
But  though  his  vows  with  such  a  fire 
Of  earnest  and  intense  desire 
For  vengeance  dark  and  fell  were  made 
As  well  might  reach  hell's  lowest  shade, 
No  deeper  clouds  the  grove  embrowned, 
No  nether  thunders  shook  the  ground ; 
The  demon  knew  his  vassal's  heart, 
And  spared  temptation's  needless  art. 


Oft,  mingled  with  the  direful  theme, 

Came  Mortham's  form  —  was  it  a  dream  ? 

Or  had  he  seen  in  vision  true 

That  very  Mortham  whom  he  slew? 

Or  had  in  living  flesh  appeared 

The  only  man  on  earth  he  feared  ?  — 

To  try  the  mystic  cause  intent, 

His  eyes  that  on  the  cliff  were  bent 

'Countered  at  once  a  dazzling  glance, 

Like  sunbeam  flashed  from  sword  or  lance. 

At  once  he  started  as  for  fight, 

But  not  a  foeman  was  in  sight ; 

He  heard  the  cushat's  murmur  hoarse, 

He  heard  the  river's  sounding  course  ; 

The  solitary  woodlands  lay, 

As  slumbering  in  the  summer  ray. 

He  gazed,  like  lion  roused,  around, 

Then  sunk  again  upon  the  ground. 

'T  was  but,  he  thought,  some  fitful  beam, 

Glanced  sudden  from  the  sparkling  stream  ; 

Then  plunged  him  in  his  gloomy  train 

Of  ill-connected  thoughts  again, 

Until  a  voice  behind  him  cried, 

'  Bertram  !  well  met  on  Greta  side.' 


XI. 

Instant  his  sword  was  in  his  hand, 
As  instant  sunk  the  ready  brand  ; 
Yet,  dubious  still,  opposed  he  stood 
To  him  that  issued  from  the  wood : 
*  Guy  Denzil !  —  is  it  thou  ? '  he  said  ; 
4  Do  we  two  meet  in  Scargill  shade  !  — 
Stand  back  a  space  !  —  thy  purpose  show, 
Whether  thou  comest  as  friend  or  foe. 
Report  hath  said,  that  Denzil's  name 
From    Rokeby's    band  #was    razed     with 

shame '  — 
'  A  shame  I  owe  that  hot  O'Neale, 
Who  told  his  knight  in  peevish  zeal 


ROKEBY. 


295 


Of  my  marauding  on  the  clowns 

Of  Calve rley  and  Bradford  downs. 

I  reck  not.     In  a  war  to  strive, 

Where  save  the  leaders  none  can  thrive, 

Suits  ill  my  mood  ;  and  better  game 

Awaits  us  both,  if  thou  'rt  the  same 

Unscrupulous,  bold  Risingham 

Who  watched  with  me  in  midnight  dark 

To  snatch  a  deer  from  Rokeby-park. 

How  think'st  thou  ? '  —  •  Speak  thy  purpose 

out; 
I  love  not  mystery  or  doubt.'  — 

XII. 

*  Then  list.  — Not  far  there  lurk  a  crew 
Of  trusty  comrades  stanch  and  true, 


Gleaned  from  both  factions  —  Roundheads. 

freed 
From  cant  of  sermon  and  of  creed, 
And  Cavaliers,  whose  souls  like  mine 
Spurn  at  the  bonds  of  discipline. 
Wiser,  we  judge,  by  dale  and  wold 
A  warfare  of  our  own  to  hold 
Than  breathe  our  last  on  battle-down 
For  cloak  or  surplice,  mace  or  crown. 
Our  schemes  are  laid,  our  purpose  set, 
A  chief  and  leader  lack  we  yet. 
Thou  art  a  wanderer,  it  is  said, 
For  Mortham's  death  thy  steps  waylaid, 
Thy  head  at  price  —  so  say  our  spies, 
Who  ranged  the  valley  in  disguise. 
Join  then  with  us  :  though  wild  debate 


296 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL   WORKS. 


And  wrangling  rend  our  infant  state, 

Each,  to  an  equal  loath  to  bow, 

Will  yield  to  chief  renowned  as  thou.'  — 

XIII. 

'Even    now,'    thought    Bertram,   passion- 
stirred, 
'  I  called  on  hell,  and  hell  has  heard ! 
What  lack  I,  vengeance  to  command, 
But  of  stanch  comrades  such  a  band  ? 
This  Denzil,  vowed  to  every  evil, 
Might  read  a  lesson  to  the  devil. 
Well,  be  it  so  !  each  knave  and  fool 
Shall  serve  as  my  revenge's  tool.'  — 
Aloud,  '  I  take  thy  proffer,  Guy, 
But  tell  me  where  thy  comrades  lie.' 
1  Not  far  from  hence,'  Guy  Denzil  said ; 
'  Descend  and  cross  the  river's  bed 
Where  rises  yonder  cliff  so  gray.' 
'  Do  thou,'  said  Bertram,  '  lead  the  way.' 
Then  muttered,  J  It  is  best  make  sure  ; 
Guy  Denzil's  faith  was  never  pure.' 
He  followed  down  the  steep  descent, 
Then  through   the    Greta's   streams   they 

went ; 
And  when  they  reached  the  farther  shore 
They  stood  the  lonely  cliff  before. 

xiv. 

With  wonder  Bertram  heard  within 
The  flinty  rock  a  murmured  din ; 
But  when  Guy  pulled  the  wilding  spray 
And  brambles  from  its  base  away, 
He  saw  appearing  to  the  air 
A  little  entrance  low  and  square, 
Like  opening  cell  of  hermit  lone, 
Dark  winding  through  the  living  stone. 
Here  entered  Denzil,  Bertram  here  ; 
And  loud  and  louder  on  their  ear, 
As  from  the  bowels  of  the  earth, 
Resounded  shouts  of  boisterous  mirth. 
Of  old  the  cavern  strait  and  rude 
In  slaty  rock  the  peasant  hewed  ; 
And  Brignall's  woods  and  Scargill's  wave 
E'en  now  o'er  many  a  sister  cave, 
Where,  far  within  the  darksome  rift, 
The  wedge  and  lever  ply  their  thrift. 
But  war  had  silenced  rural  trade, 
And  the  deserted  mine  was  made 
The  banquet-hall  and  fortress  too 
Of  Denzil  and  his  desperate  crew. 
There  Guilt  his  anxious  revel  kept 
There  on  his  sordid  pallet  slept 
Guilt-born  Excess,  the  goblet  drained 
Still  in  his  slumbering  grasp  retained  ; 
Regret  was  there,  his  eye  still  cast 
With  vain  repining  on  the  past ; 
Among  the  feasters  waited  near 
Sorrow  and  unrepentant  Fear, 


And  Blasphemy,  to  frenzy  driven, 
With  his  own  crimes  reproaching  Heaven : 
While  Bertram  showed  amid  the  crew 
The  Master-Fiend  that  Milton  drew. 

xv. 

Hark  !  the  loud  revel  wakes  again 

To  greet  the  leader  of  the  train. 

Behold  the  group  by  the  pale  lamp 

That  struggles  with  the  earthy  damp. 

By  what  strange  features  Vice  hath  known 

To  single  out  and  mark  her  own ! 

Yet  some  there  are  whose  brows  retain 

Less  deeply  stamped  her  brand  and  stain. 

See  yon  pale  stripling !  when  a  boy, 

A  mother's  pride,  a  father's  joy  ! 

Now,  'gainst  the  vault's  rude  walls  reclined,. 

An  early  image  fills  his  mind : 

The  cottage  once  his  sire's  he  sees, 

Embowered  upon  the  banks  of  Tees ; 

He  views  sweet  Winston's  woodland  scene. 

And  shares  the  dance  on  Gainford-green. 

A  tear  is  springing —  but  the  zest 

Of  some  wild  tale  or  brutal  jest 

Hath  to  loud  laughter  stirred  the  rest. 

On  him  they  call,  the  aptest  mate 

For  jovial  song  and  merry  feat : 

Fast  flies  his  dream  —  with  dauntless  airr 

As  one  victorious  o'er  despair, 

He  bids  the  ruddy  cup  go  round 

Till  sense  and  sorrow  both  are  drowned ; 

And  soon  in  merry  wassail  he, 

The  life  of  all  their  revelry, 

Peals  his  loud  song  !  —  The  muse  has  found 

Her  blossoms  on  the  wildest  ground, 

Mid  noxious  weeds  at  random  strewed, 

Themselves  all  profitless  and  rude.  — 

With  desperate  merriment  he  sung, 

The  cavern  to  the  chorus  rung, 

Yet  mingled  with  his  reckless  glee 

Remorse's  bitter  agony. 

XVI. 

Sons. 

O,  Brignall  banks  are  wild  and  fair, 

And  Greta  woods  are  green, 
And  you  may  gather  garlands  there 

Would  grace  a  summer  queen. 
And  as  I  rode  by  Dalton-hall, 

Beneath  the  turrets  high, 
A  maiden  on  the  castle  wall 

Was  singing  merrily,  — 


'  O,  Brignall  banks  are  fresh  and  fair. 
And  Greta  woods  are  green ; 

I  'd  rather  rove  with  Edmund  there 
Than  reign  our  English  queen.' 


ROKEBY. 


297 


'  If,  maiden,  thou  wouldst  wend  with  me. 

To  leave  both  tower  and  town,   * 
Thou  first  must  guess  what  life  lead  we 

That  dwell  by  dale  and  down  ? 
And  if  thou  canst  that  riddle  read, 

As  read  full  well  you  may, 
Then  to  the  greenwood  shalt  thou  speed, 

As  blithe  as  Queen  of  May.' 

CHORUS. 

Yet  sung  she,  *  Brignall  banks  are  fair, 
And  Greta  woods  are  green ; 

I  'd  rather  rove  with  Edmund  there 
Than  reign  our  English  queen. 

XVII. 

4 1  read  you,  by  your  bugle  horn, 

And  by  your  palfrey  good, 
I  read  you  for  a  ranger  sworn 

To  keep  the  king's  greenwood.' 

*  A  ranger,  lady,  winds  his  horn, 

And  't  is  at  peep  of  light ; 
His  blast  is  heard  at  merry  morn, 
And  mine  at  dead  of  night.' 

CHORUS. 

Yet  sung  she,  ■  Brignall  banks  are  fair, 

And  Greta  woods  are  gay ; 
I  would  I  were  with  Edmund  there, 

To  reign  his  Queen  of  May  ! 

•  With  burnished  brand  and  musketoon 

So  gallantly  you  come, 
I  read  you  for  a  bold  dragoon, 

That  lists  the  tuck  of  drum.' 
'  I  list  no  more  the  tuck  of  drum, 

No  more  the  trumpet  hear ; 
But  when  the  beetle  sounds  his  hum, 

My  comrades  take  the  spear. 

CHORUS. 

'  And  O,  though  Brignall  banks  be  fair, 

And  Greta  woods  be  gay, 
Yet  mickle  must  the  maiden  dare 

Would  reign  my  Queen  of  May  ! 

XVIII. 

1  Maiden  !  a  nameless  life  I  lead, 

A  nameless  death  I  '11  die  ; 
The  fiend  whose  lantern  lights  the  mead 

Were  better  mate  than  I ! 
And  when  I  'm  with  my  comrades  met 

Beneath  the  greenwood  bough, 
What  once  we  were  we  all  forget, 

Nor  think  what  we  are  now. 


'  Yet  Brignall  banks  are  fresh  and  fair, 
And  Greta  woods  are  green, 

And  you  may  gather  garlands  there 
Would  grace  a  summer  queen.' 


When  Edmund  ceased  his  simple  song, 
Was  silence  on  the  sullen  throng, 
Till  waked  some  ruder  mate  their  glee 
With  note  of  coarser  minstrelsy. 
But  far  apart  in  dark  divan, 
Denzil  and  Bertram  many  a  plan 
Of  import  foul  and  fierce  designed, 
While  still  on  Bertram's  grasping  mind 
The  wealth  of  murdered  Mortham  hung ; 
Though  half  he  feared  his  daring  tongue, 
When  it  should  give  his  wishes  birth, 
Might  raise  a  spectre  from  the  earth  ! 

XIX. 

At  length  his  wondrous  tale  he  told ; 

When  scornful  smiled  his  comrade  bold, 

For,  trained  in  license  of  a  court, 

Religion's  self  was  Denzil's  sport ; 

Then  judge  in  what  contempt  he  held 

The  visionary  tales  of  eld  ! 

His  awe  for  Bertram  scarce  repressed 

The  unbeliever's  sneering  jest, 

1  'T  were  hard,'  he  said,  '  for  sage  or  seer 

To  spell  the  subject  of  your  fear; 

Nor  do  I  boast  the  art  renowned 

Vision  and  omen  to  expound. 

Yet,  faith  if  I  must  needs  afford 

To  spectre  watching  treasured  hoard, 

As  ban-dog  keeps  his  master's  roof, 

Bidding  the  plunderer  stand  aloof, 

This  doubt  remains  —  thy  goblin  gaunt 

Hath  chosen  ill  his  ghostly  haunt ; 

For  why  his  guard  on  Mortham  hold, 

When  Rokeby  castle  hath  the  gold 

Thy  patron  won  on  Indian  soil 

By  stealth,  by  piracy,  and  spoil  ?  '  — 

xx. 

At  this  he  paused  —  for  angry  shame 

Lowered  on  the  brow  of  Risingham. 

He  blushed  to  think,  that  he  should  seem 

Assertor  of  an  airy  dream, 

And  gave  his  wrath  another  theme. 

'  Denzil,'  he  says,  '  though  lowly  laid, 

Wrong  not  the  memory  of  the  dead; 

For  while  he  lived  at  Mortham's  look 

Thy  very  soul,  Guy  Denzil,  shook ! 

And  when  he  taxed  thy  breach  of  word 

To  yon  fair  rose  of  Allenford, 

I  saw  thee  crouch  like  chastened  hound 

Whose  back  the  huntsman's  lash  hath  found. 

Nor  dare  to  call  his  foreign  wealth 

The  spoil  of  piracy  or  stealth ; 

He  won  it  bravely  with  his  brand 

When  Spain  waged  warfare  with  our  land. 

Mark,  too  —  I  brook  no  idle  jeer, 

Nor  couple  Bertram's  name  with  fear ; 

Mine  is  but  half  the  demon's  lot, 

For  I  believe,  but  tremble  not. 


298 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL   WORKS. 


Enough  of  this.     Say,  why  this  hoard 
Thou  deem'st  at  Rokeby  castle  stored ; 
Or  think'st  that  Mortham  would  bestow 
His  treasure  with  his  faction's  foe  ? ' 


XXI. 

Soon  quenched  was  Denzil's  ill-timed  mirth ; 

Rather  he  would  have  seen  the  earth 

Give  to  ten  thousand  spectres  birth 

Than  venture  to  awake  to  flame 

The  deadly  wrath  of  Risingham. 

Submiss  he  answered,  '  Mortham's  mind, 

Thou  know'st,  to  joy  was  ill  inclined. 

In  youth,  't  is  said,  a  gallant  free, 

A  lusty  reveller  was  he  ; 

But  since  returned  from  over  sea, 

A  sullen  and  a  silent  mood 

Hath  numbed  the  current  of  his  blood. 

Hence  he  refused  each  kindly  call 

To  Rokeby's  hospitable  hall, 

And  our  stout  knight,  at  dawn  or  morn 

Who  loved  to  hear  the  bugle-horn, 

Nor  less,  when  eve  his  oaks  embrowned, 

To  see  the  ruddy  cup  go  round, 

Took  umbrage  that  a  friend  so  near 

Refused  to  share  his  chase  and  cheer; 

Thus  did  the  kindred  barons  jar 

Ere  they  divided  in  the  war. 

Yet,  trust  me,  friend,  Matilda  fair 

Of  Mortham's  wealth  is  destined  heir.' 

XXII. 

'  Destined  to  her  !  to  yon  slight  maid ! 
The  prize  my  life  had  wellnigh  paid 
When  'gainst  Laroche  by  Cayo's  wave 
I  fought  my  patron's  wealth  to  save  !  — 
Denzil,  I  knew  him  long,  yet  ne'er 
Knew  him  that  joyous  cavalier 
Whom  youthful  friends  and  early  fame 
Called  soul  of  gallantry  and  game. 
A  moody  man  he  sought  our  crew, 
Desperate  and  dark,  whom  no  one  knew, 
And  rose,  as  men  with  us  must  rise, 
By  scorning  life  and  all  its  ties. 
On  each  adventure  rash  he  roved, 
As  danger  for  itself  he  loved ; 
On  his  sad  brow  nor  mirth  nor  wine 
Could  e'eV  one  wrinkled  knot  untwine  ; 
111  was  the  omen  if  he  smiled, 
For  'twas  in  peril  stern  and  wild ; 
But  when  he  laughed  each  luckless  mate 
Might  hold  our  fortune  desperate. 
Foremost  he  fought  in  every  broil, 
Then  scornful  turned  him  from  the  spoil, 
Nay,  often  strove  to  bar  the  way 
Between  his  comrades  and  their  prey ; 
Preaching  even  then  to  such  as  we, 
Hot  with  our  dear-bought  victory, 
Of  mercy  and  humanity. 


.     XXIII. 
'  I  loved*  him  well  —  his  fearless  part, 
His  gallant  leading,  won  my  heart. 
And  after  each  victorious  fight,  . 
'T  was  I  that  wrangled  for  his  right. 
Redeemed  his  portion  of  the  prey 
That  greedier  mates  had  torn  away, 
In  field  and  storm  thrice  saved  his  life, 
And  once  amid  our  comrades'  strife.  — 
Yes,  I  have  loved  thee !  Well  hath  proved 
My  toil,  my  danger,  how  I  loved  ! 
Yet  will  I  mourn  no  more  thy  fate, 
Ingrate  in  life,  in  death  ingrate. 
Rise  if  thou  canst ! '  he  looked  around 
And  sternly  stamped  upon  the  ground  — 
'  Rise,  with  thy  bearing  proud  and  high, 
Even  as  this  morn  it  met  mine  eye, 
And  give  me,  if  thou  darest,  the  lie  ! ' 
He  paused  —  then,  calm  and  passion-freed, 
Bade  Denzil  with  his  tale  proceed. 

XXIV. 

'  Bertram,  to  thee  I  need  not  tell, 
What  thou  hast  cause  to  wot  so  well, 
How  superstition's  nets  were  twined 
Around  the  Lord  of  Mortham's  mind  ; 
But  since  he  drove  thee  from  his  tower, 
A  maid  he  found  in  Greta's  bower 
Whose  speech,  like  David's  harp,  had  sway 
To  charm  his  evil  fiend  away. 
I  know  not  if  her  features  moved 
Remembrance  of  the  wife  he  loved, 
But  he  would  gaze  upon  her  eye, 
Till  his  mood  softened  to  a  sigh. 
He,  whom  no  living  mortal  sought 
To  question  of  his  secret  thought, 
Now  every  thought  and  care  confessed 
To  his  fair  niece's  faithful  breast; 
Nor  was  there  aught  of  rich  and  rare, 
In  earth,  in  ocean,  or  in  air, 
But  it  must  deck  Matilda's  hair. 
Her  love  still  bound  him  unto  life ; 
But  then  awoke  the  civil  strife, 
And  menials  bore  by  his  commands 
Three  coffers  with  their  iron  bands 
From  Mortham's  vault  at  midnight  deep 
To  her  lone  bower  in  Rokeby-Keep, 
Ponderous  with  gold  and  plate  of  pride, 
His  gift,  if  he  in  battle  died.' 


'  Then  Denzil,  as  I  guess,  lays  train 
These  iron-banded  chests  to  gain, 
Else  wherefore  should  he  hover  here 
Where  many  a  peril  waits  him  near 
For  all  his  feats  of  war  and  peace, 
For  plundered  boors,  and  harts  of  greese  ? 
Since  through  the  hamlets  as  he  fared 
What  hearth  has  Guy's  marauding  spared, 


ROKEBY. 


299 


*&  'i 


-*-    c     y  y 


Or  where  the  chase  that  hath  not  rung 
With  Denzil's  bow  at  midnight  strung?  ' 
'  I  hold  my  wont  —  my  rangers  go, 
Even  now  to  track  a  milk-white  doe. 
By  Rokeby-hall  she  takes  her  lair, 
In  Greta  wood  she  harbors  fair, 
And  when  my  huntsman  marks  her  way, 
What  think'st  thou,  Bertram,  of  the  prey  ? 
Were  Rokeby's  daughter  in  our  power, 
We  rate  her  ransom  at  her  dower.' 


'  'T  is   well !  —  there  's   vengeance   in   the 

thought, 
Matilda  is  by  Wilfrid  sought ; 
And  hot-brained  Redmond  too,  't  is  said, 
Pays  lover's  homage  to  the  maid. 
Bertram  she  scorned  —  if  met  by  chance 
She  turned  from  me  her  shuddering  glance, 
Like  a  nice  dame  that  will  not  brook 
On  what  she  hates  and  loathes  to  look ; 


300 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL   WORKS. 


She  told  to  Mortham  she  could  ne'er 
Behold  me  without  secret  fear, 
Foreboding  evil :  —  she  may  rue 
To  find  her  prophecy  fall  true  !  — 
The  war  has  weeded  Rokeby's  train, 
Few  followers  in  his  halls  remain ; 
If  thy  scheme  miss,  then,  brief  and  bold, 
We  are  enow  to  storm  the  hold, 
Bear  off  the  plunder  and  the  dame, 
And  leave  the  castle  all  in  flame.' 

XXVII. 

'  Still  art  thou  Valor's  venturous  son  ! 

Yet  ponder  first  the  risk  to  run  : 

The  menials  of  the  castle,  true 

And  stubborn  to  their  charge,  though  few  — 

The  wall  to  scale  —  the  moat  to  cross  — 

The  wicket-grate  —  the  inner  fosse  '  — 

1  Fool !  if  we  blench  for  toys  like  these, 

On  what  fair  guerdon  can  we  seize  ? 

Our  hardiest  venture,  to  explore 

Some  wretched  peasant's  fenceless  door, 

And  the  best  prize  we  bear  away, 

The  earnings  of  his  sordid  day.' 

'A  while  thy  hasty  taunt  forbear: 

In  sight  of  road  more  sure  and  fair 

Thou   wouldst    not    choose,   in    blindfold 

wrath 
Or  wantonness  a  desperate  path  ? 
List,  then  ;  —  for  vantage  or  assault, 
From  gilded  vane  to  dungeon  vault, 
Each  pass  of  Rokeby-house  I  know  : 
There  is  one  postern  dark  and  low 
That  issues  at  a  secret  spot, 
By  most  neglected  or  forgot. 
Now,  could  a  spial  of  our  train 
On  fair  pretext  admittance  gain, 
That  sally-port  might  be  unbarred ; 
Then,  vain  were  battlement  and  ward  ! 

XXVIII. 

'  Now  speak'st  thou  well :  to  me  the  same 
If  force  or  art  shall  urge  the  game ; 
Indifferent  if  like  fox  I  wind, 
Or  spring  like  tiger  on  the  hind. — 
But,  hark  !  our  merry  men  so  gay 
Troll  forth  another  roundelay.' 


1  A  weary  lot  is  thine,  fair  maid, 

A  weary  lot  is  thine  ! 
To  pull  the  thorn  thy  brow  to  braid, 

And  press  the  rue  for  wine  ! 
A  lightsome  eye,  a  soldier's  mien, 

A  feather  of  the  blue, 
A  doublet  of  the  Lincoln  green.  — 

No  more  of  me  you  knew, 

My  love  ! 
No  more  of  me  you  knew. 


'  This  morn  is  merry  June,  I  trow, 

The  rose  is  budding  fain  ; 
But  she  shall  bloom  in  winter  snow 

Ere  we  two  meet  again.' 
He  turned  his  charger  as  he  spake 

Upon  the  river  shore, 
He  gave  his  bridle-reins  a  shake, 

Said,  '  Adieu  for  evermore, 

My  love  ! 
And  adieu  for  evermore.' 


1  What  youth  is  this  your  band  among 
The  best  for  minstrelsy  and  song  ? 
In  his  wild  notes  seem  aptly  met 
A  strain  of  pleasure  and  regret.'  — 
1  Edmund  of  Winston  is  his  name  ; 
The  hamlet  sounded  with  the  fame 
Of  early  hopes  his  childhood  gave,  — 
Now  centred  all  in  Brignall  cave  ! 
I  watch  him  well  — his  wayward  course 
Shows  oft  a  tincture  of  remorse. 
Some  early  love-shaft  grazed  his  heart, 
And  oft  the  scar  will  ache  and  smart. 
Yet  is  he  useful  ;  —  of  the  rest 
By  fits  the  darling  and  the  jest, 
His  harp,  his  story,  and  his  lay, 
Oft  aid  the  idle  hours  away  : 
When  unemployed,  each  fiery  mate 
Is  ripe  for  mutinous  debate. 
He  tuned  his  strings  e'en  now —  again 
He  wakes  them  with  a  blither  strain.' 


XXX. 

Song. 

ALLEN-A-DALE. 

Allen-a-Dale  has  no  fagot  for  burning, 
Allen-a-Dale  has  no  furrow  for  turning, 
Allen-a-Dale  has  no  fleece  for  the  spinning, 
Yet  Allen-a-Dale    has   red  gold    for    the 

winning. 
Come,  read  me  my  riddle  !  come,  hearken 

my  tale  ! 
And  tell  me  the  craft  of  bold  Allen-a-Dale. 

The  Baron  of  Ravensworth  prances  in  pride, 

And  he  views  his  domains  upon  Arkindale 
side. 

The  mere  for  his  net  and  the  land  for  his 
game, 

The  chase  for  the  wild  and  the  park  for  the 
tame ; 

Yet  the  fish  of  the  lake  and  the  deer  of  the 
vale 

Are  less  free  to  Lord  Dacre  than  Allen-a- 
Dale ! 


ROKEBY. 


301 


Allen-a-Dale  was  ne'er  belted  a  knight, 
Though  his  spur  be  as  sharp  and  his  blade 

be  as  bright ; 
Allen-a-Dale  is  no  baron  or  lord, 
Yet  twenty  tall  yeomen  will  draw  at  his 

word  ; 
And  the  best  of  our  nobles  his  bonnet  will 

vail, 
Who  at   Rere-cross   on    Stanmore    meets 

Allen-a-Dale ! 


The  mother,  she  asked  of  his  household 
and  home : 

'  Though  the  castle  of  Richmond  stand  fair 
on  the  hill, 

My  hall,'  quoth  bold  Allen,  'shows  gallanter 
still; 

'T  is  the  blue  vault  of  heaven,  with  its  cres- 
cent so  pale 

And  with  all  its  bright  spangles ! '  said 
Allen-a-Dale. 

The  father  was  steel  and  the  mother. was 
stone ; 

They  lifted  the  latch  and  they  bade  him  be 
gone ; 

But  loud  on  the  morrow  their  wail  and  their 
cry  : 

He  had  laughed  on  the  lass  with  his  bonny 
black  eye, 

And  she  fled  to  the  forest  to  hear  a  love- 
tale, 

And  the  youth  it  was  told  by  was  Allen-a- 
dale  ! 


'  Thou  see'st  that,  whether  sad  or  gay, 

Love  mingles  ever  in  his  lay. 

But  when  his  boyish  wayward  fit 

Is  o'er,  he  hath  address  and  wit ; 

O,  't  is  a  brain  of  fire,  can  ape 

Each  dialect,  each  various  shape  ! '  — 

*  Nay,  then,  to  aid  thy  project,  Guy  — 

Soft !  who  comes  here  ? '  —  '  My  trusty  spy. 

Speak,    Hamlin !     hast    thou    lodged    our 

deer?'  — 
'  I  have  —  but  two  fair  stags  are  near. 
I  watched  her  as  she  slowly  strayed 
From  Egliston  up  Thorsgill  glade, 
But  Wilfrid  Wycliffe  sought  her  side, 
And  then  young  Redmond  in  his  pride 
Shot  down  to  meet  them  on  their  way ; 
Much,  as  it  seemed,  was  theirs  to  say  : 
There  's  time  to  pitch  both  toil  and  net 
Before  their  path  be  homeward  set.' 
A  hurried  and  a  whispered  speech 
Did  Bertram's  will  to  Denzil  teach, 
Who,  turning  to  the  robber  band, 
Bade  four,  the  bravest,  take  the  brand. 


Eokebg. 


CANTO    FOURTH. 


When  Denmark's  raven  soared  on  high, 
Triumphant  through  Northumbrian  sky, 
Till  hovering  near  her  fatal  croak 
Bade  Reged's  Britons  dread  the  yoke, 
And  the  broad  shadow  of  her  wing 
Blackened  each  cataract  and  spring 
Where  Tees  in  tumult  leaves  his  source, 
Thundering  o'er  Caldron  and  High-Force  ; 
Beneath  the  shade  the  Northmen  came, 
Fixed  on  each  vale  a  Runic  name, 
Reared  high  their  altar's  rugged  stone, 
And  gave  their  gods  the  land  they  won.  ' 
Then,  Balder,  one  bleak  garth  was  thine 
And  one  sweet  brooklet's  silver  line, 
And  Woden's  Croft  did  title  gain 
From  the  stern  Father  of  the  Slain; 
But  to  the  Monarch  of  the  Mace, 
That  held  in  fight  the  foremost  place, 
To  Odin's  son  and  Sifia's  spouse, 
Near  Startforth  high  they  paid  their  vows, 
Remembered  Thor's  victorious  fame, 
And  gave  the  dell  the  Thunderer's  name. 

11. 

Yet  Scald  or  Kemper  erred,  I  ween, 
Who  gave  that  soft  and  quiet  scene, 
With  all  its  varied  light  and  shade, 
And  every  little  sunny  glade, 
And  the  blithe  brook  that  strolls  along 
Its  pebbled  bed  with  summer  song, 
To  the  grim  God  of  blood  and  scar, 
The  grisly  King  of  Northern  War. 
O,  better  were  its  banks  assigned 
To  spirits  of  a  gentler  kind  ! 
For  where  the  thicket-groups  recede 
And  the  rath  primrose  decks  the  mead, 
The  velvet  grass  seems  carpet  meet 
For  the  light  fairies'  lively  feet. 
Yon  tufted  knoll  with  daisies  strown 
Might  make  proud  Oberon  a  throne, 
While,  hidden  in  the  thicket  nigh, 
Puck  should  brood  o'er  his  frolic  sly; 
And  where  profuse  the  wood-vetch  clings 
Round  ash  and  elm  in  verdant  rings, 
Its  pale  and  azure-pencilled  flower 
Should  canopy  Titania's  bower. 

hi. 

Here  rise  no  cliffs  the  vale  to  shade  ; 
But,  skirting  every  sunny  glade, 
In  fair  variety  of  green 
The  woodland  lends  its  sylvan  screen. 
Hoary  yet  haughty,  frowns  the  oak, 
Its  boughs  by  weight  of  ages  broke  ; 


302 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL   WORKS. 


And  towers  erect  in  sable  spire 
The  pine-tree  scathed  by  lightning-fire  ; 
The  drooping  ash  and  birch  between 
Hang  their  fair  tresses  o'er  the  green, 
And  all  beneath  at  random  grow 
Each  coppice  dwarf  of  varied  show, 
Or,  round  the  stems  profusely  twined, 
Fling  summer  odors  on  the  wind. 
Such  varied  group  Urbino's  hand 
Round  Him  of  Tarsus  nobly  planned, 
What  time  he  bade  proud  Athens  own 
On  Mars's  Mount  the  God  Unknown ! 
Then  gray  Philosophy  stood  nigh, 
Though  bent  by  age,  in  spirit  high  : 
There  rose  the  scar-seamed  veteran's  spear, 
There  Grecian  Beauty  bent  to  hear, 
While  Childhood  at  her  foot  was  placed, 
Or  clung  delighted  to  her  waist. 

IV. 

'  And  rest  we  here,'  Matilda  said, 
And  sat  her  in  the  varying  shade. 
'  Chance-met,  we  well  may  steal  an  hour, 
To  friendship  due  from  fortune's  power. 
Thou,  Wilfrid,  ever  kind,  must  lend 
Thy  counsel  to  thy  sister-friend ; 
And,  Redmond,  thou,  at  my  behest, 
No  farther  urge  thy  desperate  quest. 
For  to  my  care  a  charge  is  left, 
Dangerous  to  one  of  aid  bereft, 
Wellnigh  an  orphan  and  alone, 
Captive  her  sire,  her  house  o'erthrown.' 
Wilfrid,  with  wonted  kindness  graced, 
Beside  her  on  the  turf  she  placed ; 
Then  paused  with  downcast  look  and  eye, 
Nor  bade  young  Redmond  seat  him  nigh. 
Her  conscious  diffidence  he  saw, 
Drew  backward  as  in  modest  awe, 
And  sat  a  little  space  removed, 
Unmarked  to  gaze  on  her  he  loved. 


Wreathed  in  its  dark-brown  rings,  her  hair 
Half  hid  Matilda's  forehead  fair, 
Half  hid  and  half  revealed  to  view 
Her  full  dark  eye  of  hazel  hue. 
The  rose  with  faint  and  feeble  streak 
So  slightly  tinged  the  maiden's  cheek 
That  you  had  said  her  hue  was  pale  ; 
But  if  she  faced  the  summer  gale, 
Or  spoke,  or  sung,  or  quicker  moved, 
Or  heard  the  praise  of  those  she  loved, 
Or  when  of  interest  was  expressed 
Aught  that  waked  feeling  in  her  breast, 
The  mantling  blood  in  ready  play 
Rivalled  the  blush  of  rising  day. 
There  was  a  soft  and  pensive  grace, 
A  cast  of  thought  upon  her  face, 
That  suited  well  the  forehead  high, 
The  eyelash  dark  and  downcast  eye ; 


The  mild  expression  spoke  a  mind 

In  duty  firm,  composed,  resigned  ;  — 

'T  is  that  which  Roman  art  has  given, 

To  mark  their  maiden  Queen  of  Heaven. 

In  hours  of  sport  that  mood  gave  way 

To  Fancy's  light  and  frolic  play  ; 

And  when  the  dance,  or  tale,  or  song 

In  harmless  mirth  sped  time  along, 

Full  oft  her  doting  sire  would  call 

His  Maud  the  merriest  of  them  all. 

But  days  of  war  and  civil  crime 

Allowed  but  ill  such  festal  time, 

And  her  soft  pensiveness  of  brow 

Had  deepened  into  sadness  now. 

In  Marston  field  her  father  ta'en, 

Her    friends    dispersed,    brave    Mortham 

slain, 
While  every  ill  her  soul  foretold 
From  Oswald's  thirst  of  power  and  gold, 
And  boding  thoughts  that  she  must  part 
With  a  soft  vision  of  her  heart,  — 
All  lowered  around  the  lovely  maid, 
To  darken  her  dejection's  shade. 


Who  has  not  heard  —  while  Erin  yet 

Strove  'gainst  the  Saxon's  iron  bit  — 

Who  has  not  heard  how  brave  O'Neale 

In  English  blood  imbrued  his  steel, 

Against  Saint  George's  cross  blazed  high 

The  banners  of  his  Tanistry, 

To  fiery  Essex  gave  the  foil, 

And  reigned  a  prince  on  Ulster's  soil  ? 

But  chief  arose  his  victor  pride 

When  that  brave  Marshal  fought  and  died, 

And  Avon-Duff"  to  ocean  bore 

His  billows  red  with  Saxon  gore. 

'Twas  first  in  that  disastrous  fight 

Rokeby  and  Mortham  proved  their  might. 

There  had  they  fallen  amongst  the  rest, 

But  pity  touched  a  chieftain's  breast ; 

The  Tanist  he  to  great  O'Neale, 

He  checked  his  followers'  bloody  zeal, 

To  quarter  took  the  kinsmen  bold, 

And  bore  them  to  his  mountain-hold, 

Gave  them  each  sylvan  joy  to  know 

Slieve-Donard's    cliffs    and  woods    could 

show, 
Shared  with  them  Erin's  festal  cheer, 
Showed  them  the  chase  of  wolf  and  deer, 
And,  when  a  fitting  time  was  come, 
Safe  and  unransomed  sent  them  home, 
Loaded  with  many  a  gift  to  prove 
A  generous  foe's  respect  and  love. 


Years  speed  away.     On  Rokeby's  head 
Some  touch  of  early  snow  was  shed ; 
Calm  he  enjoyed  by  Greta's  wave 
The  peace  which  James  the  Peaceful  gave, 


ROKEBY. 


303 


While  Mortham  far  beyond  the  main 
Waged  his  fierce  wars  on  Indian  Spain.  — 
It  chanced  upon  a  wintry  night 
That  whitened  Stanmore's  stormy  height, 
The  chase  was  o'er,  the  stag  was  killed, 
In  Rokeby  hall  the  cups  were  filled, 
And  by  the  huge  stone  chimney  sate 
The  knight  in  hospitable  state. 
Moonless  the  sky,  the  hour  was  late, 
When  a  loud  summons  shook  the  gate, 
And  sore  for  entrance  and  for  aid 
A  voice  of  foreign  accent  prayed. 
The  porter  answered  to  the  call, 
And  instant  rushed  into  the  hall 
A  man  whose  aspect  and  attire 
Startled  the  circle  by  the  fire. 

VIII. 

His  plaited  hair  in  elf-locks  spread 

Around  his  bare  and  matted  head  ; 

On  leg  and  thigh,  close  stretched  and  trim, 

His  vesture  showed  the  sinewy  limb ; 

In  saffron  dyed,  a  linen  vest 

Was  frequent  folded  round  his  breast ; 

A  mantle  long  and  loose  he  wore, 

Shaggy  with  ice  and  stained  with  gore. 

He  clasped  a  burden  to  his  heart, 

And,  resting  on  a  knotted  dart, 


Thes  now  from  hair  and  beard  he  shook, 
And  round  him  gazed  with  wildered  look. 
Then  up  the  hall  with  staggering  pace 
He  hastened  by  the  blaze  to  place, 
Half  lifeless  from  the  bitter  air, 
His  load,  a  boy  of  beauty  rare. 
To  Rokeby  next  he  louted  low, 
Then  stood  erect  his  tale  to  show 
With  wild  majestic  port  and  tone; 
Like  envoy  of  some  barbarous  throne. 
1  Sir  Richard,  Lord  of  Rokeby,  hear ! 
Turlough  O'Neale  salutes  thee  dear; 
He  graces  thee,  and  to  thy  care 
Young  Redmond  gives,  his  grandson  fair. 
He  bids  thee  breed  him  as  thy  son, 
For  Turlough's  days  of  joy  are  done, 
And  other  lords  have  seized  his  land, 
And  faint  and  feeble  is  his  hand, 
And  all  the  glory  of  Tyrone 
Is  like  a  morning  vapor  flown. 
To  bind  the  duty  on  thy  soul, 
He  bids  thee  think  on  Erin's  bowl ! 
If  any  wrong  the  young  O'Neale, 
He  bids  thee  think  of  Erin's  steel. 
To  Mortham  first  this  charge  was  due, 
But  in  his  absence  honors  you.  — 
Now  is  my  master's  message  by, 
And  Ferraught  will  contented  die.' 


304 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL    WORKS. 


IX. 

His  look  grew  fixed,  his  cheek  grew  pale, 
He  sunk  when  he  had  told  his  tale  ; 
For,  hid  beneath  his  mantle  wide, 
A  mortal  wound  was  in  his  side. 
Vain  was  all  aid  —  in  terror  wild 
And  sorrow  screamed  the  orphan  child. 
Poor  Ferraught  raised  his  wistful  eyes, 
And  faintly  strove  to  soothe  his  cries  ; 
All  reckless  of  his  dying  pain, 
He  blest  and  blest  him  o'er  again, 
And  kissed  the  little  hands  outspread, 
And  kissed  and  crossed  the  infant  head, 
And  in  his  native  tongue  and  phrase  . 
Prayed  to  each  saint  to  watch  his  days ; 
Then  all  his  strength  together  drew 
The  charge  to  Rokeby  to  renew. 
When  half  was  faltered  from  his  breast, 
And  half  by  dying  signs  exDressed, 
'  Bless  thee,  O'Neale  ! '  he  faintly  said, 
And  thus  the  faithful  spirit  fled. 

x. 

'T  was  long  ere  soothing  might  prevail 
Upon  the  child  to  end  the  tale  : 
And  then  he  said  that  from  his  home 
His  grandsire  had  been  forced  to  roam, 
Which  had  not  been  if  Redmond's  hand 
Had  but  had  strength  to  draw  the  brand, 
The  brand  of  Lenaugh  More  the  Red, 
That  hung  beside  the  gray  wolf's  head.  — 
'T  was  from  his  broken  phrase  descried, 
His  foster  father  was  his  guide, 
Who  in  his  charge  from  Ulster  bore 
Letters  and  gifts  a  goodly  store ; 
But  ruffians  met  them  in  the  wood, 
Ferraught  in  battle  boldly  stood, 
Till  wounded  and  o'erpowered  at  length, 
And  stripped  of  all,  his  failing  strength 
Just  bore  him  here  — and  then  the  child 
Renewed  again  his  moaning  wild. 

XI. 

The    tear    down   childhood's    cheek    that 

flows 
Is  like  the  dewdrop  on  the  rose ; 
When  next  the  summer  breeze  comes  by 
And  waves  the  bush,  the  flower  is  dry. 
Won  by  their  care,  the  orphan  child 
Soon  on  his  new  protector  smiled, 
With  dimpled  cheek  and  eye  so  fair, 
Through  his  thick  curls  of  flaxen  hair, 
But  blithest  laughed  that  cheek  and  eye, 
When  Rokeby's  little  maid  was  nigh  ; 
'T  was  his  with  elder  brother's  pride 
Matilda's  tottering  steps  to  guide  ; 
His  native  lays  in  Irish  tongue 
To  soothe  her  infant  ear  he  sung, 
And  primrose  twined  with  daisy  fair 


To  form  a  chaplet  for  her  hair. 
By  lawn,  by  grove,  by  brooklet's  strand, 
The  children  still  were  hand  in  hand, 
And  good  Sir  Richard  smiling  eyed 
The  early  knot  so  kindly  tied. 

XII. 

But  summer  months  bring  wilding  shoot 

From  bud  to  bloom,  from  bloom  to  fruit ; 

And  years  draw  on  our  human  span 

From  child  to  boy,  from  boy  to  man ; 

And  soon  in  Rokeby's  woods  is  seen 

A  gallant  boy  in  hunter's  green. 

He  loves  to  wake  the  felon  boar 

In  his  dark  haunt  on  Greta's  shore, 

And  loves  against  the  deer  so  dun 

To  draw  the  shaft,  or  lift  the  gun : 

Yet  more  he  loves  in  autumn  prime 

The  hazel's  spreading  boughs  to  climb, 

And  down  its  clustered  stores  to  hail 

Where  young  Matilda  holds  her  veil. 

And  she  whose  veil  receives  the  shower 

Is  altered  too  and  knows  her  power, 

Assumes  a  monitress's  pride 

Her  Redmond's  dangerous  sports  to  chide, 

Yet  listens  still  to  hear  him  tell 

How  the  grim  wild-boar  fought  and  fell, 

How  at  his  fall  the  bugle  rung, 

Till  rock  and  greenwood  answer  flung  : 

Then  blesses  her  that  man  can  find 

A  pastime  of  such  savage  kind  ! 


But  Redmond  knew  to  weave  his  tale 

So  well  with  praise  of  wood  and  dale, 

And  knew  so  well  each  point  to  trace 

Gives  living  interest  to  the  chase, 

And  knew  so  well  o'er  all  to  throw 

His  spirit's  wild  romantic  glow, 

That,    while   she    blamed    and   while   she 

feared, 
She  loved  each  venturous  tale  she  heard. 
Oft,  too,  when  drifted  snow  and  rain 
To  bower  and  hall  their  steps  restrain, 
Together  they  explored  the  page 
Of  glowing  bard  or  gifted  sage  ; 
Oft,  placed  the  evening  fire  beside, 
The  minstrel  art  alternate  tried, 
While  gladsome  harp  and  lively  lay 
Bade  winter-night  flit  fast  away  : 
Thus,  from  their  childhood  blending  still 
Their  sport,  their  study,  and  their  skill, 
An  union  of  the  soul  they  prove, 
But  must  not  think  that  it  was  love. 
But  though  they  dared  not,  envious  Fame 
Soon  dared  to  give  that  union  name  ; 
And  when  so  often  side  by  side 
From  year  to  year  the  pair  she  eyed, 
She  sometimes  blamed  the  good  old  knight 
As  dull  of  ear  and  dim  of  sight, 


ROKEBY. 


305 


Sometimes  his  purpose  would  declare 
That  young  O'Neale  should  wed  his  heir. 


The  suit  of  Wilfrid  rent  disguise 

And  bandage  from  the  lovers'  eyes ; 

'T  was  plain  that  Oswald  for  his  son 

Had  Rokeby's  favor  wellnigh  won. 

Now  must  they  meet  with  change  of  cheer, 

With  mutual  looks  of  shame  and  fear  : 


And  count  the  heroes  of  his  line, 
Great  Nial  of  the  Pledges  Nine, 
Shane-Dymas  wild,  and  Geraldine, 
And  Connan-more,  who  vowed  his  race 
For  ever  to  the  fight  and  chase, 
And  cursed  him  of  his  lineage  born 
Should  sheathe  the  sword  to  reap  the  corn, 
Or  leave  the  mountain  and  the  wold 
To  shroud  himself  in  castled  hold. 
From  such  examples  hope  he  drew, 
And  brightened  as  the  trumpet  blew. 


Now  must  Matilda  stray  apart 
To  school  her  disobedient  heart,. 
And  Redmond  now  alone  must  rue 
The  love  he  never  can  subdue. 
But  factions  rose,  and  Rokeby  sware 
No  rebel's  son  should  wed  his  heir; 
And  Redmond,  nurtured  while  a  child 
In  many  a  bard's  traditions  wild, 
Now  sought  the  lonely  wood  or  stream, 
To  cherish  there  a  happier  dream 
Of  maiden  won  by  sword  or  lance, 
As  in  the  regions  of  romance  ; 


xv. 


If  brides  were  won  by  heart  and  blade, 
Redmond  had  both  his  cause  to  aid, 
And  all  beside  of  nurture  rare 
That  might  beseem  a  baron's  heir. 
Turlough  O'Neale  in  Erin's  strife 
On  Rokeby's  Lord  bestowed  his  life, 
And  well  did  Rokeby's  generous  knight 
Young  Redmond  for  the  deed  requite. 
Nor  was  his  liberal  care  and  cost 
Upon  the  gallant  stripling  lost : 


20 


3o6 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL    WORKS. 


Seek  the  North  Riding  broad  and  wide, 
Like  Redmond  none  could  steed  bestride  ; 
From  Tynemouth  search  to  Cumberland, 
Like  Redmond  none  could  wield  a  brand  ; 
And  then,  of  humor  kind  and  free, 
And  bearing  him  to  each  degree 
With  frank  and  fearless  courtesy, 
There  never  youth  was  formed  to  steal 
Upon  the  heart  like  brave  O'Neale. 

XVI. 

Sir  Richard  loved  him  as  his  son ; 
And  when  the  days  of  peace  were  done, 
And  to  the  gales  of  war  he  gave 
The  banner  of  his  sires  to  wave, 
Redmond,  distinguished  by  his  care, 
He  chose  that  honored  flag  to  bear, 
And  named  his  page,  the  next  degree 
In  that  old  time  to  chivalry. 
In  five  pitched  fields  he  well  maintained 
The  honored  place  his  worth  obtained, 
And  high  was  Redmond's  youthful  name 
Blazed  in  the  roll  of  martial  fame. 
Had  fortune  smiled  on  Marston  fight, 
The  eve  had  seen  him  dubbed  a  knight ; 
Twice  mid  the  battle's  doubtful  strife 
Of  Rokeby's  Lord  he  saved  the  life, 
But  when  he  saw  him  prisoner  made, 
He  kissed  and  then  resigned  his  blade, 
And  yielded  him  an  easy  prey 
To  those  who  led  the  knight  away, 
Resolved  Matilda's  sire  should  prove 
In  prison,  as  in  fight,  his  love. 

XVII. 

When  lovers  meet  in  adverse  hour, 
'T  is  like  a  sun-glimpse  through  a  shower, 
A  watery  ray  an  instant  seen 
The  darkly  closing  clouds  between. 
As  Redmond  on  the  turf  reclined, 
The  past  and  present  filled  his  mind  : 
'  It  was  not  thus,'  Affection  said, 
1 1  dreamed  of  my  return,  dear  maid  ! 
Not  thus  when  from  thy  trembling  hand 
I  took  the  banner  and  the  brand, 
When  round  me,  as  the  bugles  blew, 
Their  blades  three  hundred  warriors  drew, 
And,  while  the  standard  I  unrolled, 
Clashed  their  bright  arms,  with  clamor  bold. 
Where  is  that  banner  now  ?  —  its  pride 
Lies  whelmed  in  Ouse's  sullen  tide  ! 
Where  now  these  warriors  ?  —  in  their  gore 
They  cumber  Marston's  dismal  moor ! 
And  what  avails  a  useless  brand, 
Held  by  a  captive's  shackled  hand, 
That  only  would  his  life  retain 
To  aid  thy  sire  to  bear  his  chain !  ' 
Thus  Redmond  to  himself  apart, 
Nor  lighter  was  his  rival's  heart : 


For  Wilfrid,  while  his  generous  soul 
Disdained  to  profit  by  control, 
By  many  a  sign  could  mark  too  plain, 
Save  with  such  aid,  his  hopes  were  vain. 
But  now  Matilda's  accents  stole 
On  the  dark  visions  of  their  soul, 
And  bade  their  mournful  musing  fly, 
Like  mist  before  the  zephyr's  sigh. 

XVIII. 

'  I  need  not  to  my  friends  recall, 

How  Mortham  shunned  my  father's  hall, 

A  man  of  silence  and  of  woe, 

Yet  ever  anxious  to  bestow 

On  my  poor  self  whate'er  could  prove 

A  kinsman's  confidence  and  love. 

My  feeble  aid  could  sometimes  chase 

The  clouds  of  sorrow  for  a  space ; 

But  oftener,  fixed  beyond  my  power, 

I  marked  his  deep  despondence  lower. 

One  dismal  cause,  by  all  unguessed, 

His  fearful  confidence  confessed  ; 

And  twice  it  was  my  hap  to  see 

Examples  of  that  agony 

Which  for  a  season  can  o'erstrain 

And  wreck  the  structure  of  the  brain. 

He  had  the  awful  power  to  know 

The  approaching  mental  overthrow, 

And  while  his  mind  had  courage  yet 

To  struggle  with  the  dreadful  fit, 

The  victim  writhed  against  its  throes, 

Like  wretch  beneath  a  murderer's  blows. 

This  malady,  I  well  could  mark, 

Sprung  from  some  direful  cause  and  dark, 

But  still  he  kept  its  source  concealed, 

Till  arming  for  the  civil  field  ; 

Then  in  my  charge  he  bade  me  hold 

A  treasure  huge  of  gems  and  gold, 

With  this  disjointed  dismal  scroll 

That  tells  the  secret  of  his  soul 

In  such  wild  words  as  oft  betray 

A  mind  by  anguish  forced  astray.' 

xix. 
fflortljam's  f^tstcrrj. 
1  Matilda  !  thou  hast  seen  me  start, 
As  if  a  dagger  thrilled  my  heart, 
When  it  has  happed  some  casual  phrase 
Waked  memory  of  my  former  days. 
Believe  that  few  can  backward  cast 
Their  thought  with  pleasure  on  the  past ; 
But  I  !  —  my  youth  was  rash  and  vain, 
And  blood  and  rage  my  manhood  stain, 
And  my  gray  hairs  must  now  descend 
To  my  cold  grave  without  a  friend  ! 
Even  thou,  Matilda,  wilt  disown 
Thy  kinsman  when  his  guilt  is  known. 
And  must  I  lift  the  bloody  veil 
That  hides  my  dark  and  fatal  tale  ? 


ROKEBY. 


307 


I  must  —  I  will  —  Pale  phantom,  cease  ! 
Leave  me  one  little  hour  in  peace  ! 
Thus  haunted,  think'st  thou  I  have  skill 
Thine  own  commission  to  fulfil  ? 
Or,  while  thou  point'st  with  gesture  fierce 
Thy  blighted  cheek,  thy  bloody  hearse, 
How  can  I  paint  thee  as  thou  wert, 
So  fair  in  face,  so  warm  in  heart !  — 


XX. 

1  Yes,  she  was  fair !  —  Matilda,  thou 
Hast  a  soft  sadness  on  thy  brow  ; 
But  hers  was  like  the  sunny  glow, 
That  laughs  on  earth  and  all  below ! 
We  wedded  secret  —  there  was  need  — 
Differing  in  country  and  in  creed  ; 
And  when  to  Mortham's  tower  she  came. 


308 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL   WORKS. 


We  mentioned  not  her  race  and  name, 
Until  thy  sire,  who  fought  afar, 
Should  turn  him  home  from  foreign  war 
On  whose  kind  influence  we  relied 
To  soothe  her  father's  ire  and  pride. 
Few  months  we  lived  retired,  unknown 
To  all  but  one  dear  friend  alone, 
One  darling  friend  —  I  spare  his  shame, 
I  will  not  write  the  villain's  name  ! 
My  trespasses  I  might  forget, 
And  sue  in  vengeance  for  the  debt 
Due  by  a  brother  worm  to  me, 
Ungrateful  to  God's  clemency, 
That  spared  me  penitential  time, 
Nor  cut  me  off  amid  my  crime.  — 

XXI. 

4  A  kindly  smile  to  all  she  lent, 

But  on  her  husband's  friend 't  was  bent 

So  kind  that  from  its  harmless  glee 

The  wretch  misconstrued  villany. 

Repulsed  in  his  presumptuous  love, 

A  vengeful  snare  the  traitor  wove. 

Alone  we  sat  —  the  flask  had  flowed, 

My  blood  with  heat  unwonted  glowed, 

When  through  the  alley ed  walk  we  spied 

With  hurried  step  my  Edith  glide, 

Cowering  beneath  the  verdant  screen, 

As  one  unwilling  to  be  seen. 

Words  cannot  paint  the  fiendish  smile 

That  curled  the  traitor's  cheek  the  while  ! 

Fiercely  I  questioned  of  the  cause  ; 

He  made  a  cold  and  artful  pause, 

Then  prayed  it  might  not  chafe  my  mood  — 

"  There  was  a  gallant  in  the  wood ! " 

We  had  been  shooting  at  the  deer  ; 

My  cross-bow  —  evil  chance  !  —  was  near : 

That  ready  weapon  of  my  wrath 

I  caught  and,  hasting  up  the  path, 

In  the  yew  grove  my  wife  I  found ; 

A  stranger's  arms  her  neck  had  bound ! 

I  marked  his  heart  —  the  bow  I  drew  — 

I  loosed  the  shaft  —  't  was  more  than  true  ! 

I  found  my  Edith's  dying  charms 

Locked  in  her  murdered  brother's  arms  ! 

He  came  in  secret  to  inquire 

Her  state  and  reconcile  her  sire. 

XXII. 

*  All  fled  my  rage  —  the  villain  first 
Whose  craft  my  jealousy  had  nursed ; 
He  sought  in  far  and  foreign  clime 
To  'scape  the  vengeance  of  his  crime. 
The  manner  of  the  slaughter  done 
Was  known  to  few,  my  guilt  to  none  ; 
Some  tale  my  faithful  steward  framed  — 
I  know  not  what  —  of  shaft  mis-aimed  ; 
And  even  from  those  the  act  who  knew 
He  hid  the  hand  from  which  it  flew. 


Untouched  by  human  laws  I  stood, 

But  God  had  heard  the  cry  of  blood  ! 

There  is  a  blank  upon  my  mind, 

A  fearful  vision  ill-defined 

Of  raving  till  my  flesh  was  torn 

Of  dungeon-bolts  and  fetters  worn  — 

And  when  I  waked  to  woe  more  mild 

And  questioned  of  my  infant  child  — 

Have  I  not  written  that  she  bare 

A  boy,  like  summer  morning  fair?  — 

With  looks  confused  my  menials  tell 

That  armed  men  in  Mortham  dell 

Beset  the  nurse's  evening  way, 

And  bore  her  with  her  charge  away. 

My  faithless  friend,  and  none  but  he, 

Could  profit  by  this  villany ; 

Him  then  I  sought  with  purpose  dread 

Of  treble  vengeance  on  his  head  ! 

He  'scaped  me  —  but  my  bosom's  wound 

Some  faint  relief  from  wandering  found, 

And  over  distant  land  and  sea 

I  bore  my  load  of  misery. 

XXIII. 

'  'T  was  then  that  fate  my  footsteps  led 

Among  a  daring  crew  and  dread, 

With  whom  full  oft  my  hated  life 

I  ventured  in  such  desperate  strife 

That  even  my  fierce  associates  saw 

My  frantic  deeds  with  doubt  and  awe. 

Much  then  I  learned  and  much  can  show 

Of  human  guilt  and  human  woe, 

Yet  ne'er  have  in  my  wanderings  known 

A  wretch  whose  sorrows  matched  my  own ! — 

It  chanced  that  after  battle  fray 

Upon  the  bloody  field  we  lay  ; 

The  yellow  moon  her  lustre  shed 

Upon  the  wounded  and  the  dead, 

While,  sense  in  toil  and  wassail  drowned, 

My  ruffian  comrades  slept  around, 

There  came  a  voice  —  its  silver  tone 

Was  soft,  Matilda,  as  thine  own  — 

"  Ah,  wretch  !  "  it  said,  "  what  mak'st  thou 

here, 
While  unavenged  my  bloody  bier, 
While  unprotected  lives  mine  heir 
Without  a  father's  name  and  care  ?  " 

XXIV. 

'I  heard  —  obeyed  —  and  homeward  drew; 

The  fiercest  of  our  desperate  crew 

I  brought,  at  time  of  need  to  aid 

My  purposed  vengeance  long  delayed. 

But  humble  be  my  thanks  to  Heaven 

That  better  hopes  and  thoughts  has  given, 

And  by  our  Lord's  dear  prayer  has  taught 

Mercy  by  mercy  must  be  bought !  — 

Let  me  in  misery  rejoice  — 

I  've  seen  his  face  —  I  've  heard  his  voice  — 


ROKEBY. 


309 


I  claimed  of  him  my  only  child  — 
As  he  disowned  the  theft,  he  smiled  ! 
That  very  calm  and  callous  look, 
That  fiendish  sneer  his  visage  took, 
As  when  he  said,  in  scornful  mood, 
"  There  is  a  gallant  in  the  wood  !  "  — 
I  did  not  slay  him  as  he  stood  — 
All  praise  be  to  my  Maker  given  ! 
Long  suffrance  is  one  path  to  heaven.' 

XXV. 

Thus  far  the  woful  tale  was  heard 
When  something  in  the  thicket  stirred. 
Up  Redmond  sprung ;  the  villain  Guy  — 
For  he  it  was  that  lurked  so  nigh  — 
Drew  back  —  he  durst  not  cross  his  steel 
A  moment's  space  with  brave  O'Neale 
For  all  the  treasured  gold  that  rests 
In  Mortham's  iron-banded  chests. 
Redmond  resumed  his  seat ;  —  he  said 
Some  roe  was  rustling  in  the  shade. 
Bertram  laughed  grimly  when  he  saw 
His  timorous  comrade  backward  draw : 
'A  trusty  mate  art  thou,  to  fear 
A  single  arm,  and  aid  so  near ! 
Yet  have  I  seen  thee  mark  a  deer. 
Give  me  thy  carabine  —  I  '11  show 
An  art  th^t  thou  wilt  gladly  know, 
How  thou  mayst  safely  quell  a  foe.' 

xxvi. 

On  hands  and  knees  fierce  Bertram  drew 

The  spreading  birch  and  hazels  through, 

Till  he  had  Redmond  full  in  view  ; 

The  gun  he  levelled  —  Mark  like  this 

Was  Bertram  never  known  to  miss, 

When  fair  opposed  to  aim  their  sate 

An  object  of  his  mortal  hate. 

That  day  young  Redmond's  death  had  seen, 

But  twice  Matilda  came  between 

The  carabine  and  Redmond's  breast 

Just  ere  the  spring  his  finger  pressed. 

A  deadly  oath  the  ruffian  swore, 

But  yet  his  fell  design  forbore  : 

'  It  ne'er,'  he  muttered,  '  shall  be  said 

That  thus  I  scathed  thee,  haughty  maid ! ' 

Then  moved  to  seek  more  open  aim, 

When  to  his  side  Guy  Denzil  came  : 

'*  Bertram,  forbear  !  —  we  are  undone 

For  ever,  if  thou  fire  the  gun. 

By  all  the  fiends,  an  armed  force 

Descends  the  dell  of  foot  and  horse ! 

We  perish  if  they  hear  a  shot  — 

Madman  !  we  have  a  safer  plot  — 

Nay,  friend,  be  ruled,  and  bear  thee  back! 

Behold,  down  yonder  hollow  track 

The  warlike  leader  of  the  band 

Comes  with  his  broadsword  in  his  hand.' 

Bertram  looked  up ;  he  saw,  he  knew 


That  Denzil's  fears  had  counselled  true, 
Then  cursed  his  fortune  and  withdrew, 
Threaded  the  woodlands  undescried, 
And  gained  the  cave  on  Greta  side. 

XXVII. 

They  whom  dark  Bertram  in  his  wrath 
Doomed  to  captivity  or  death, 
Their  thoughts  to  one  sad  subject  lent, 
Saw  not  nor  heard  the  ambush ment. 
Heedless  and  unconcerned  they  sate 
While  on  the  very  verge  of  fate, 
Heedless  and  unconcerned  remained 
When    Heaven    the   murderer's    arm    re- 
strained ; 
As  ships  drift  darkling  down  the  tide, 
Nor  see  the  shelves  o'er  which  they  glide. 
Uninterrupted  thus  they  heard 
What  Mortham's  closing  tale  declared. 
He  spoke  of  wealth  as  of  a  load 
By  fortune  on  a  wretch  bestowed, 
In  bitter  mockery  of  hate, 
His  cureless  woes  to  aggravate  ; 
But  yet  he  prayed  Matilda's  care 
Might  save  that  treasure  for  his  heir  — 
His  Edith's  son  —  for  still  he  raved 
As  confident  his  life  was  saved ; 
In  frequent  vision,  he  averred, 
He  saw  his  face,  his  voice  he  heard, 
Then  argued  calm  —  had  murder  been, 
The  blood,  the  corpses,  had  been  seen ; 
Some  had  pretended,  too,  to  mark 
On  Windermere  a  stranger  bark, 
Whose  crew,  with  jealous  care  yet  mild, 
Guarded  a  female  and  a  child. 
While  these  faint  proofs  he  told  and  pressed, 
Hope  seemed  to  kindle  in  his  breast ; 
Though  inconsistent,  vague,  and  vain, 
It  warped  his  judgment  and  his  brain. 

XXVIII. 

These  solemn  words  his  story  close  :  — 
'  Heaven  witness  for  me  that  I  chose 
My  part  in  this  sad  civil  fight 
Moved  by  no  cause  but  England's  right. 
My  country's  groans  have  bid  me  draw 
My  sword  for  gospel  and  for  law  ;  — 
These  righted,  I  fling  arms  aside 
And  seek  my  son  through  Europe  wide. 
My  wealth,  on  which  a  kinsman  nigh 
Already  casts  a  grasping  eye, 
With  thee  may  unsuspected  lie. 
When  of  my  death  Matilda  hears, 
Let  her  retain  her  trust  three  years  ; 
If  none  from  me*  the  treasure  claim, 
Perished  is  Mortham's  race  and  name. 
Then  let  it  leave  her  generous  hand, 
And  flow  in  bounty  o'er  the  land, 
Soften  the  wounded  prisoner's  lot, 
Rebuild  the  peasant's  ruined  cot: 


3io 


scorrs  poetical  works. 


So  spoils,  acquired  by  fight  afar, 
Shall  mitigate  domes'tic  war.' 


The  generous  youths,  who  well  had  known 

Of  Mortham's  mind  the  powerful  tone, 

To  that  high  mind  by  sorrow  swerved 

Gave  sympathy  his  woes  deserved  ; 

But  Wilfrid  chief,  who  saw  revealed 

Why  Mortham  wished  his  life  concealed, 

In  secret,  doubtless,  to  pursue 

The  schemes  his  wildered  fancy  drew. 

Thoughtful  he  heard  Matilda  tell 

That  she  would  share  her  father's  cell, 

His  partner  of  captivity, 

Where'er  his  prison-house  should  be  ; 

Yet  grieved  to  think  that  Rokeby-hall, 

Dismantled  and  forsook  by  all, 

Open  to  rapine  and  to  stealth, 

Had  now  no  safeguard  for  the  wealth 

Intrusted  by  her  kinsman  kind 

And  for  such  noble  use  designed. 

'Was  Barnard  Castle  then  her  choice,' 

Wilfrid  inquired  with  hasty  voice, 

'  Since  there  the  victor's  laws  ordain 

Her  father  must  a  space  remain?' 

A  fluttered  hope  his  accent  shook, 

A  fluttered  joy  was  in  his  look. 

Matilda  hastened  to  reply, 

For  anger  flashed  in  Redmond's  eye  ;  — 

'  Duty,'  she  said,  with  gentle  grace, 

1  Kind  Wilfrid,  has  no  choice  of  place  ; 

Else  had  I  for  my  sire  assigned 

Prison  less  galling  to  his  mind 

Than  that  his  wild-wood  haunts  which  sees 

And  hears  the  murmur  of  the  Tees, 

Recalling  thus  with  every  glance 

What  captive's  sorrow  can  enhance  ; 

But  where  those  woes  are  highest,  there 

Needs  Rokeby  most  his  daughter's  care.' 

XXX. 

He  felt  the  kindly  check  she  gave, 

And  stood  abashed  —  then  answered  grave  : 

'  I  sought  thy  purpose,  noble  maid, 

Thy  doubts  to  clear,  thy  schemes  to  aid. 

I  have  beneath  mine  own  command, 

So  wills  my  sire,  a  gallant  band, 

And  well  could  send  some  horsemen  wight 

To  bear  the  treasure  forth  by  night, 

And  so  bestow  it  as  you  deem 

In  these  ill  days  may  safest  seem.' 

'  Thanks,  gentle  Wilfrid,  thanks,'  she  said  : 

1  O,  be  it  not  one  day  delayed ! 

And,  more  thy  sister-friend  to  aid, 

Be  thou  thyself  content  to  hold 

In  thine  own  keeping  Mortham's  gold, 

Safest  with  thee.'  —  While  thus  she  spoke, 

Armed  soldiers  on  their  converse  broke, 


The  same  of  whose  approach  afraid 
The  ruffians  left  their  ambuscade. 
Their  chief  to  Wilfrid  bended  low, 
Then  looked  around  as  for  a  foe. 
'What  mean'st  thou,  friend,'  young  Wyc- 

liffe  said, 
'  Why  thus  in  arms  beset  the  glade  ? '  — 
'  That  would  I  gladly  learn  from  you ; 
For  up  my  squadron  as  I  drew 
To  exercise  our  martial  game 
Upon  the  moor  of  Barninghame, 
A  stranger  told  you  were  waylaid, 
Surrounded,  and  to  death  betrayed. 
He  had  a  leader's  voice,  I  ween, 
A  falcon  glance,  a  warrior's  mien. 
He  bade  me  bring  you  instant  aid ; 
I  doubted  not  and  I  obeyed.' 


Wilfrid  changed  color,  and  amazed 
Turned  short  and  on  the  speaker  gazed, 
While  Redmond  every  thicket  round 
Tracked  earnest  as  a  questing  hound, 
And  Denzil's  carabine  he  found; 
Sure  evidence  by  which  they  knew 
The  warning  was  as  kind  as  true. 
Wisest  it  seemed  with  cautious  speed 
To  leave  the  dell.     It  was  agreed 
That  Redmond  with  Matilda  fail* 
And  fitting  guard  should  home  repair : 
At  nightfall  Wilfrid  should  attend 
With  a  strong  band  his  sister-friend, 
To  bear  with  her  from  Rokeby's  bovvers 
To  Barnard  Castle's  lofty  towers 
Secret  and  safe  the  banded  chests 
In  which  the  wealth  of  Mortham  rests. 
This  hasty  purpose  fixed,  they  part, 
Each  with  a  grieved  and  anxious  heart. 


CANTO    FIFTH. 


The  sultry  summer  day  is  done, 
The  western  hills  have  hid  the  sun, 
But  mountain  peak  and  village  spire 
Retain  reflection  of  his  fire. 
Old  Barnard's  towers  are  purple  still 
To  those  that  gaze  from  Toller-hill ; 
Distant  and  high,  the  tower  of  Bowes 
Like  steel  upon  the  anvil  glows  ; 
And  Stanmore's  ridge  behind  that  lay 
Rich  with  the  spoils  of  parting  day, 
In  crimson  and  in  gold  arrayed, 
Streaks  yet  awhile  the  closing  shade, 


ROKEBY. 


3" 


l«dS3&&*v 


Then  slow  resigns  to  darkening  heaven 
The  tints  which  brighter  hours  had  given. 
Thus  aged  men  full  loath  and  slow 
The  vanities  of  life  forego, 
And  count  their  youthful  follies  o'er 
Till  memory  lends  her  light  no  more. 

11. 

The  eve  that  slow  on  upland  fades 
Has  darker  closed  on  Rokeby's  glades 
Where,  sunk  within  their  banks  profound, 
Her  guardian  streams  to  meeting  wound. 
The  stately  oaks,  whose  sombre  frown 
Of  noontide  made  a  twilight  brown, 
Impervious  now  to  fainter  light, 
Of  twilight  make  an  early  night. 
Hoarse  into  middle  air  arose 
The  vespers  of  the  roosting  crows, 
And  with  congenial  murmurs  seem 
To  wake  the  Genii  of  the  stream ; 
For  louder  clamored  Greta's  tide, 
And  Tees  in  deeper  voice  replied 
And  fitful  waked  the  evening  wind, 
Fitful  in  sighs  its  breath  resigned. 
Wilfrid,  whose  fancy-nurtured  soul 
Felt  in  the  scene  a  soft  control, 
With  lighter  footstep  pressed  the  ground, 
And  often  paused  to  look  around  ; 
And,  though  his  path  was  to  his  love, 
Could  not  but  linger  in  the  grove, 
To  drink  the  thrilling  interest  dear 
Of  awful  pleasure  checked  by  fear. 


Such  inconsistent  moods  have  we, 
Even  when  our  passions  strike  the  key. 


in. 

Now,  through    the    wood's    dark    mazes 

past, 
The  opening  lawn  he  reached  at  last 
Where,  silvered  by  the  moonlight  ray, 
The  ancient  Hall  before  him  lay. 
Those  martial  terrors  long  were  fled 
That  frowned  of  old  around  its  head : 
The  battlements,  the  turrets  gray, 
Seemed  half  abandoned  to  decay ; 
On  barbican  and  keep  of  stone 
Stern  Time  the  foeman's  work  had  done. 
Where  banners  the  invader  braved, 
The  harebell  now  and  wallflower  waved  ; 
In  the  rude  guard-room  where  of  yore 
Their  weary  hours  the  warders  wore, 
Now,  while  the  cheerful  fagots  blaze, 
On  the  paved  floor  the  spindle  plays ; 
The  flanking  guns  dismounted  lie, 
The  moat  is  ruinous  and  dry, 
The  grim  portcullis  gone  —  and  all 
The  fortress  turned  to  peaceful  Hall. 


IV. 

But  yet  precautions  lately  ta'en 
Showed  danger's  day  revived  again  ; 
The  court-yard  wall  showed  marks  of  care 
The  fall'n  defences  to  repair, 


312 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL   WORKS. 


Lending  such  strength  as  might  withstand 
The  insult  of  marauding  band. 
The  beams  once  more  were  taught  to  bear 
The  trembling  drawbridge  into  air, 
And  not  till  questioned  o'er  and  o'er 
For  Wilfrid  oped  the  jealous  door, 
And  when  he  entered  bolt  and  bar 
Resumed  their  place  with  sullen  jar; 
Then,  as  he  crossed  the  vaulted  porch, 
The  old  gray  porter  raised  his  torch, 
And  viewed  him  o'er  from  foot  to  head 
Ere  to  the  hall  his  steps  he  led. 
That  huge  old  hall  of  knightly  state 
Dismantled  seemed  and  desolate. 
The  moon  through  transom-shafts  of  stone 
Which  crossed  the  latticed  oriels  shone, 
And  by  the  mournful  light  she  gave 
The  Gothic  vault  seemed  funeral  cave. 
Pennon  and  banner  waved  no  more 
O'er  beams  of  stag  and  tusks  of  boar, 
Nor  glimmering  arms  were  marshalled  seen 
To  glance  those  sylvan  spoils  between. 
Those  arms,  those  ensigns,  borne  away, 
Accomplished  Rokeby's  brave  array, 
But  all  were  lost  on  Marston's  day! 
Yet  here  and  there  the  moonbeams  fall 
Where  armor  yet  adorns  the  wall, 
Cumbrous  of  size,  uncouth  to  sight, 
And  useless  in  the  modern  fight, 
Like  veteran  relic  of  the  wars 
Known  only  by  neglected  scars. 


v. 

Matilda  soon  to  greet  him  came, 

And  bade  them  light  the  evening  flame ; 

Said  all  for  parting  was  prepared, 

And  tarried  but  for  Wilfrid's  guard. 

But  then,  reluctant  to  unfold 

His  father's  avarice  of  gold, 

He  hinted  that  lest  jealous  eye 

Should  on  their  precious  burden  pry, 

He  judged  it  best  the  castle  gate 

To  enter  when  the  night  wore  late ; 

And  therefore  he  had  left  command 

With  those  he  trusted  of  his  band 

That  they  should  be  at  Rokeby  met 

What  time  the  midnight-watch  was  set. 

Now  Redmond  came,  whose  anxious  care 

Till  then  was  busied  to  prepare 

All  needful,  meetly  to  arrange 

The  mansion  for  its  mournful  change. 

With  Wilfrid's  care  and  kindness  pleased, 

His  cold  unready  hand  he  seized, 

And  pressed  it  till  his  kindly  strain 

The  gentle  vouth  returned  again. 

Seemed  as  between  them  this  was  said, 

4  Awhile  let  jealousy  be  dead, 

And  let  our  contest  be  whose  care 

Shall  best  assist  this  helpless  fair.' 


VI. 

There  was  no  speech  the  truce  to  bind ; 

It  was  a  compact  of  the  mind, 

A  generous  thought  at  once  impressed 

On  either  rival's  generous  breast. 

Matilda  well  the  secret  took 

From  sudden  change  of  mien  and  look, 

And  —  for  not  small  had  been  her  fear 

Of  jealous  ire  and  danger  near  — 

Felt  even  in  her  dejected  state 

A  joy  beyond  the  reach  of  fate. 

They  closed  beside  the  chimney's  blaze, 

And  talked,  and  hoped  for  happier  days, 

And  lent  their  spirits'  rising  glow 

Awhile  to  gild  impending  woe  — 

High  privilege  of  youthful  time, 

Worth  all  the  pleasures  of  our  prime  ! 

The  bickering  fagot  sparkled  bright 

And  gave  the  scene  of  love  to  sight, 

Bade  Wilfrid's  cheek  more  lively  glow, 

Played  on  Matilda's  neck  of  snow, 

Her  nut-brown  curls  and  forehead  high, 

And  laughed  in  Redmond's  azure  eye. 

Two  lovers  by  the  maiden  sate 

Without  a  glance  of  jealous  hate  ; 

The  maid  her  lovers  sat  between 

With  open  brow  and  equal  mien ; 

It  is  a  sight  but  rarely  spied, 

Thanks  to  man's  wrath  and  woman's  pride. 


While  thus  in  peaceful  guise  they  sate 
A  knock  alarmed  the  outer  gate, 
And  ere  the  tardy  porter  stirred 
The  tinkling  of  a  harp  was  heard. 
A  manly  voice  of  mellow  swell 
Bore  burden  to  the  music  well :  — 

Song. 

'  Summer  eve  is  gone  and  past, 
Summer  dew  is  falling  fast ; 
I  have  wandered  all  the  day, 
Do  not  bid  me  farther  stray  ! 
Gentle  hearts  of  gentle  kin, 
Take  the  wandering  harper  in! ' 

But  the  stern  porter  answer  gave, 
With  '  Get  thee  hence,  thou  strolling  knave ! 
The  king  wants  soldiers  ;  war,  I  trow, 
Were  meeter  trade  for  such  as  thou.' 
At  this  unkind  reproof  again 
Answered  the  ready  Minstrel's  strain  : 

Song  Ifosumeo. 

'  Bid  not  me,  in  battle-field, 
Buckler  lift  or  broadsword  wield ! 
All  my  strength  and  all  my  art 
Is  to  touch  the  gentle  heart 
With  the  wizard  notes  that  ring 
From  the  peaceful  minstrel-string.' 


ROKEBY. 


313 


The  porter,  all  unmoved,  replied,  — 
'  Depart  in  peace,  with  Heaven  to  guide 
If  longer  by  the  gate  thou  dwell, 
Trust  me,  thou  shalt  not  part  so  well.' 


VIII. 


With  somewhat  of  appealing  look 
The  harper's  part  young  Wilfrid  took : 
1  These  notes  so  wild  and  ready  thrill, 


IX. 

Song  3ftesutnrtJ. 

1 1  have  song  of  war  for  knight, 
Lay  of  love  for  lady  bright, 
Fairy  tale  to  lull  the  heir, 
Goblin  grim  the  maids  to  scare. 
Dark  the  night  and  long  till  day, 
Do  not  bid  me  farther  stray! 


They  show  no  vulgar  minstrel's  skill ; 

Hard  were  his  task  to  seek  a  home 

More  distant,  since  the  night  is  come; 

And  for  his  faith  I  dare  engage  — 

Your  Harpool's  blood  is  soured  by  age ; 

His  gate,  once  readily  displayed 

To  greet  the  friend,  the  poor  to  aid, 

Now  even  to  me  though  known  of  old 

Did  but  reluctantly  unfold.'  — 

1  O  blame  not  as  poor  Harpool's  crime 

An  evil  of  this  evil  time. 

He  deems  dependent  on  his  care 

The  safety  of  his  patron's  heir, 

Nor  judges  meet  to  ope  the  tower 

To  guest  unknown  at  parting  hour, 

Urging  his  duty  to  excess 

Of  rough  and  stubborn  faithfulness. 

For  this  poor  harper,  I  would  fain 

He  may  relax  :  —  hark  to  his  strain  ! ' 


1  Rokeby's  lords  of  martial  fame, 
I  can  count  them  name  by  name; 
Legends  of  their  line  there  be, 
Known  to  few  but  known  to  me  ; 
If  you  honor  Rokeby's  kin, 
Take  the  wandering  harper  in  ! 

1  Rokeby's  lords  had  fair  regard 
For  the  harp  and  for  the  bard  ; 
Baron's  race  throve  never  well 
Where  the  curse  of  minstrel  fell. 
If  you  love  that  noble  kin, 
Take  the  weary  harper  in  ! ' 

1  Hark  !  Harpool  parleys  — there  is  hope  ' 
Said  Redmond,  '  that  the  gate  will  ope.'  — 
4  For  all  thy  brag  and  boast,  I  trow,    . 
Naught  knowest  thou  of  the  Felon  Sow,' 


3H 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL    WORKS. 


Quoth  Harpool,  '  nor  how  Greta-side 
She  roamed  and  Rokeby  forest  wide ; 
Nor  how  Ralph  Rokeby  gave  the  beast 
To  Richmond's  friars  to  make  a  feast. 
Of  Gilbert  Griffinson  the  tale 
Goes,  and  of  gallant  Peter  Dale 
That  well  could  strike  with  sword  amain, 
And  of  the  valiant  son  of  Spain, 
Friar  Middleton,  and  blithe  Sir  Ralph  ; 
There  were  a  jest  to  make  us  laugh  ! 
If  thou  canst  tell  it,  in  yon  shed, 
Thou  'st  won  thy  supper  and  thy  bed.' 


Matilda  smiled  ;  '  Cold  hope,'  said  she, 
'  From  Harpool's  love  of  minstrelsy  ! 
But  for  this  harper  may  we  dare, 
Redmond,  to  mend  his  couch  and  fare  ? '  - 
'  O,  ask  me  not !  —  At  minstrel-string 
My  heart  from  infancy  would  spring ; 
Nor  can  I  hear  its  simplest  strain 
But  it  brings  Erin's  dream  again, 
When  placed  by  Owen  Lysagh's  knee  — 
The  Filea  of  O'Neale  was  he, 
A  blind  and  bearded  man  whose  eld 
Was  sacred  as  a  prophet's  held  — 
I  've  seen  a  ring  of  rugged  kerne, 
With  aspects  shaggy,  wild,  and  stern, 
Enchanted  by  the  master's  lay, 
Linger  around  the  livelong  day, 
Shift  from  wild  rage  to  wilder  glee, 
To  love,  to  grief,  to  ecstasy, 
And  feel  each  varied  change  of  soul 
Obedient  to  the  bard's  control.  — 
Ah,  Clandeboy  !  thy  friendly  floor 
Slieve-Donard's  oak  shall  light  no  more  ; 
Nor  Owen's  harp  beside  the  blaze 
Tell  maiden's  love  or  hero's  praise  ! 
The  mantling  brambles  hide  thy  hearth, 
Centre  of  hospitable  mirth  ; 
All  undistinguished  in  the  glade, 
My  sires'  glad  home  is  prostrate  laid, 
Their  vassals  wander  wide  and  far, 
Serve  foreign  lords  in  distant  war, 
And  now  the  stranger's  sons  enjoy 
The  lovely  woods  of  Clandeboy  ! 
He  spoke,  and  proudly  turned  aside 
The  starting  tear  to  dry  and  hide. 


Matilda's  dark  and  softened  eye 

Was  glistening  ere  O'Neale's  was  dry. 

Her  hand  upon  his  arm  she  laid,  — 

'  It  is  the  will  of  Heaven,'  she  said. 

'  And  think'st  thou,  Redmond,  I  can  part 

From    this    loved    home    with    lightsome 

heart. 
Leaving  to  wild  neglect  whate'er 
Even  from  my  infancy  was  dear  ? 
For  in  this  calm  domestic  bound 


Were  all  Matilda's  pleasures  found. 

That  hearth  my  sire  was  wont  to  grace 

Full  soon  may  be  a  stranger's  place  ; 

This  hall  in  which  a  child  I  played 

Like  thine,  dear  Redmond,  lowly  laid, 

The  bramble  and  the  thorn  may  braid  ; 

Or,  passed  for  aye  from  me  and  mine, 

It  ne'er  may  shelter  Rokeby's  line. 

Yet  is  this  consolation  given, 

My  Redmond,  —  'tis  the  will  of  Heaven.' 

Her  word,  her  action,  and  her  phrase 

Were  kindly  as  in  early  days  ; 

For  cold  reserve  had  lost  its  power 

In  sorrow's  sympathetic  hour. 

Young  Redmond  dared  not  trust  his  voice ; 

But  rather  had  it  been  his  choice 

To  share  that  melancholy  hour 

Than,  armed  with  all  a  chieftain's  power, 

In  full  possession  to  enjoy 

Slieve-Donard  wide  and  Clandeboy. 

XII. 

The  blood  left  Wilfrid's  ashen  cheek, 

Matilda  sees  and  hastes  to  speak.  — 

1  Happy  in  friendship's  ready  aid, 

Let  all  my  murmurs  here  be  staid  ! 

And  Rokeby's  maiden  will  not  part 

From  Rokeby's  hall  with  moody  heart. 

This  night  at  least  for  Rokeby's  fame 

The  hospitable  hearth  shall  flame, 

And  ere  its  native  heir  retire 

Find  for  the  wanderer  rest  and  fire, 

While  this  poor  harper  by  the  blaze 

Recounts  the  tale  of  other  days. 

Bid  Harpool  ope  the  door  with  speed, 

Admit  him  and  relieve  each  need.  — 

Meantime,  kind  Wycliffe,  wilt  thou  try 

Thy  minstrel  skill  ?  —  Nay,  no  reply  - — 

And  look  not  sad  !  —  I  guess  thy  thought ; 

Thy  verse  with  laurels  would  be  bought, 

And  poor  Matilda,  landless  now, 

Has  not  a  garland  for  thy  brow. 

True,  I  must  leave  sweet  Rokeby's  glades, 

Nor  wander  more  in  Greta  shades  ; 

But  sure,  no  rigid  jailer,  thou 

Wilt  a  short  prison-walk  allow 

Where  summer  flowers  grow  wild  at  will 

On  Marwood-chase  and  Toller  Hill ; 

Then  holly  green  and  lily  gay 

Shall  twine  in  guerdon  of  thy  lay.' 

The  mournful  youth  a  space  aside 

To  tune  Matilda's  harp  applied, 

And  then  a  low  sad  descant  rung 

As  prelude  to  the  lay  he  sung. 

XIII. 

tZLfye  Cgpress  WLxtufy. 

'  O,  lady,  twine  no  wreath  for  me, 
Or  twine  it  of  the  cypress-tree  ! 


ROKEBY. 


315 


!   Too  lively  glow  the  lilies  light, 
j   The  varnished  holly  's  all  too  bright, 
The  May-flower  and  the  eglantine 
May  shade  a  brow  less  sad  than  mine ; 
But,  lady,  weave  no  wreath  for  me, 
Or  weave  it  of  the  cypress-tree  ! 

1  Let  dimpled  Mirth  his  temples  twine 
With  tendrils  of  the  laughing  vine  ; 
The  manly  oak,  the  pensive  yew, 
•To  patriot  and  to  sage  be  due  ; 
The  myrtle  bough  bids  lovers  live, 
But  that  Matilda  will  not  give  ; 
Then,  lady,  twine  no  wreath  for  me, 
Or  twine  it  of  the  cypress-tree  ! 

'  Let  merry  England  proudly  rear 

Her  blended  roses  bought  so  dear; 

Let  Albin  bind  her  bonnet  blue 

With  heath  and  harebell  dipped  in  dew : 

On  favored  Erin's  crest  be  seen 

The  flower  she  loves  of  emerald  green  — 

But,  lady,  twine  no  wreath  for  me. 

Or  twine  it  of  the  cypress-tree. 

'  Strike  the  wild  harp  while  maids  prepare 
The  ivy  meet  for  minstrel's  hair  ; 
And,  while  his  crown  of  laurel-leaves 
With  bloody  hand  the  victor  weaves, 
Let  the  loud  trump  his  triumph  tell ; 
But  when  you  hear  the  passing-bell, 
Then,  lady,  twine  a  wreath  for  me, 
And  twine  it  of  the  cypress-tree. 

1  Yes  !  twine  for  me  the  cypress-bough  ; 
But,  O  Matilda,  twine  not  now  ! 
Stay  till  a  few  brief  months  are  past, 
And  I  have  looked  and  loved  my  last ! 
When  villagers  my  shroud  bestrew 
With  pansies,  rosemary,  and  rue,  — 
Then,  lady,  weave  a  wreath  for  me, 
And  weave  it  of  the  cypress-tree.' 


XIV. 

O'Neale  observed  the  starting  tear, 

And    spoke    with    kind    and     blithesome 

cheer  — 
'  No,  noble  Wilfrid  !  ere  the  day 
When  mourns  the  land  thy  silent  lay, 
Shall  many  a  wreath  be  freely  wove 
By  hand  of  friendship  and  of  love. 
I  would  not  wish  that  rigid  Fate 
Had  doomed  thee  to  a  captive's  state, 
Whose  hands  are  bound  by  honor's  law, 
Who  wears  a  sword  he  must  not  draw ; 
But  were  it  so,  in  minstrel  pride 
The  land  together  would  we  ride 
On  prancing  steeds,  like  harpers  old, 
Bound  for  the  halls  of  barons  bold ; 


Each  lover  of  the  lyre  we  'd  seek 
From  Michael's  Mount  to  Skiddaw's  Peak, 
Survey  wild  Albin's  mountain  strand, 
And  roam  green  Erin's  lovely  land, 
While  thou  the  gentler  souls  should  move 
With  lay  of  pity  and  of  love, 
And  I,  thy  mate,  in  rougher  sfrain 
Would  sing  of  war  and  warriors  slain. 
Old  England's  bards  were  vanquished  then, 
And  Scotland's  vaunted  Hawthornden, 
And,  silenced  on  Iernian  shore, 
M'Curtin's  harp  should  charm  no  more  ! ' 
In  lively  mood  he  spoke  to  wile 
From  Wilfrid's  woe-worn  cheek  a  smile. 


xv. 

•  But,'  said  Matilda,  '  ere  thy  name, 

Good  Redmond,  gain  its  destined  fame, 

Say,  wilt  thou  kindly  deign  to  call 

Thy  brother-minstrel  to  the  hall  ? 

Bid  all  the  household  too  attend. 

Each  in  his  rank  a  humble  friend  ; 

I  know  their  faithful  hearts  will  grieve 

When  their  poor  mistress  takes  her  leave ; 

So  let  the  horn  and  beaker  flow 

To  mitigate  their  parting  woe.' 

The  harper  came  ;  —  in  youth's  first  prime 

Himself  ;  in  mode  of  olden  time 

His  garb  was  fashioned,  to  express 

The  ancient  English  minstrel's  dress, 

A  seemly  gown  of  Kendal  green 

With  gorget  closed  of  silver  sheen  ; 

His  harp  in  silken  scarf  was  slung. 

And  by  his  side  an  anlace  hung. 

It  seemed  some  masquer's  quaint  array 

For  revel  or  for  holiday. 


XVI. 

He  made  obeisance  with  a  free 
Yet  studied  air  of  courtesy. 
Each  look  and  accent  framed  to  please 
Seemed  to  affect  a  playful  ease ; 
His  face  was  of  that  doubtful  kind 
That  wins  the  eye,  but  not  the  mind  ; 
Yet  harsh  it  seemed  to  deem  amiss 
Of  brow  so  young  and  smooth  as  this. 
His  was  the  subtle  look  and  sly 
That,  spying  all,  seems  naught  to  spy  ; 
Round  all  the  group  his  glances  stole, 
Unmarked  themselves,  to  mark  the  whole. 
Yet  sunk  beneath  Matilda's  look, 
Nor  could  the  eye  of  Redmond  brook. 
To  the  suspicious  or  the  old 
Subtle  and  dangerous  and  bold 
Had  seemed  this  self-invited  guest ; 
But  young  our  lovers,  — and  the  rest, 
Wrapt  in  their  sorrow  and  their  fear 
At  parting  of  their  Mistress  dear, 


3i6 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL    WORKS. 


Tear-blinded  to  the  castle-hall 
Came  as  to  bear  her  funeral  pall. 

XVII. 

All  that  expression  base  was  gone 

When  waked  the  guest  his  minstrel  tone  ; 

It  fled  at  inspiration's  call, 

As  erst  the  demon  fled  from  Saul. 

More  noble  glance  he  cast  around, 

More  free-drawn  breath  inspired  the  sound, 

His  pulse  beat  bolder  and  more  high 

In  all  the  pride  of  minstrelsy  ! 

Alas  !  too  soon  that  pride  was  o'er, 

Sunk  with  the  lay  that  bade  it  soar ! 

His  soul  resumed  with  habit's  chain 

Its  vices  wild  and  follies  vain, 

And  gave  the  talent  with  him  born, 

To  be  a  common  curse  and  scorn. 

Such  was  the  youth  whom  Rokeby's  maid 

With  condescending  kindness  prayed 

Here  to  renew  the  strains  she  loved, 

At  distance  heard  and  well  approved. 

XVIII. 

Song. 

THE   HARP. 

I  was  a  wild  and  wayward  boy, 

My  childhood  scorned  each  childish  toy  ; 

Retired  from  all,  reserved  and  coy, 

To  musing  prone, 
I  wooed  my  solitary  joy, 

My  Harp  alone. 

My  youth  with  bold  ambition's  mood 
Despised  the  humble  stream  and  wood 
Where  my  poor  father's  cottage  stood, 

To  fame  unknown ;  — 
What  should  my  soaring  views  make  good  ? 

My  Harp  alone ! 

Love  came  with  all  his  frantic  fire, 
And  wild  romance  of  vain  desire  : 
The  baron's  daughter  heard  my  lyre 

And  praised  the  tone ;  — 
What  could  presumptuous  hope  inspire  ? 

My  Harp  alone ! 

At  manhood's  touch  the  bubble  burst, 
And  manhood's  pride  the  vision  curst, 
And  all  that  had  my  folly  nursed 

Love's  sway  to  own ; 
Yet  spared  the  spell  that  lulled  me  first. 

My  Harp  alone ! 

Woe  came  with  war,  and  want  with  woe, 
And  it  was  mine  to  undergo 
Each  outrage  of  the  rebel  foe  :  — 

Can  aught  atone 
My  fields  laid  waste,  my  cot  laid  low  ? 

My  Harp  alone  ! 


Ambition's  dreams  I  've  seen  depart, 
Have  rued  of  penury  the  smart, 
Have  felt  of  love  the  venomed  dart, 

When  hope  was  flown; 
Yet  rests  one  solace  to  my  heart,  — 

My  Harp  alone  ! 

Then  over  mountain,  moor,  and  hill, 
My  faithful  Harp,  I  '11  bear  thee  still ; 
And  when  this  life  of  want  and  ill 

Is  wellnigh  gone, 
Thy  strings  mine  elegy  shall  thrill, 

My  Harp  alone ! 


•  A  pleasing  lay  ! '  Matilda  said ; 

But  Harpool  shook  his  old  gray  head, 

And  took  his  baton  and  his  torch 

To  seek  his  guard-room  in  the  porch. 

Edmund  observed  —  with  sudden  change 

Among  the  strings  his  fingers  range, 

Until  they  waked  a  bolder  glee 

Of  military  melody ; 

Then  paused  amid  the  martial  sound, 

And  looked  with  well-feigned  fear  around  ;  — 

'  None  to  this  noble  house  belong,' 

He  said,  'that  would  a  minstrel  wrong 

Whose  fate  has  been  through  good  and  ill 

To  love  his  Royal  Master  still, 

And  with  your  honored  leave  would  fain 

Rejoice  you  with  a  loyal  strain.' 

Then,  as  assured  by  sign  and  look, 

The  warlike  tone  again  he  took  ; 

And  Harpool  stopped  and  turned  to  hear 

A  ditty  of  the  Cavalier. 


XX. 

Song. 

THE   CAVALIER. 

While  the  dawn  on  the  mountain  was  misty 

and  gray, 
My  true  love  has  mounted  his  steed  and 

away, 
Over  hill,  over  valley,  o'er  dale,  and  o'er 

down ; 
Heaven  shield  the  brave  gallant  that  fights 

for  the  Crown  ! 

He  has  doffed  the  silk  doublet  the  breast- 
plate to  bear, 

He  has  placed  the  steel-cap  o'er  his  long- 
flowing  hair, 

From  his  belt  to  his  stirrup  his  broadsword 
hangs  down,  — 

Heaven  shield  the  brave  gallant  that  fights 
for  the  Crown  ! 


ROKEBY. 


317 


For  the  rights  of  fair  England  that  broad- 
sword he  draws, 

Her  King  is  his  leader,  her  Church  is  his 
cause ; 

His  watch  word  is  honor,  his  pay  is  renown,  — 

God  strike  with  the  gallant  that  strikes  for 
the  Crown ! 

They  may  boast  of  their  ^airfax,  their 
Waller,  and  all 

The  roundheaded  rebels  of  Westminster 
Hall ; 

But  tell  these  bold  traitors  .  of  London's 
proud  town, 

That  the  spears  of  the  North  have  encir- 
cled the  Crown. 

There 's   Derby  and  Cavendish,   dread  of 

their  foes ; 
There's  Erin's  high  Ormond  and  Scotland's 

Montrose ! 
Would  you  match  the  base  Skippon,  and 

Massey,  and  Brown, 
With  the  Barons  of  England  that  fight  for 

the  Crown  ? 

Now  joy  to  the  crest  of  the  brave  Cavalier! 
Be  his  banner  unconquered,  resistless  his 

spear, 
Till  in  peace  and  in  triumph  his  toils  he 

may  drown, 
In  a  pledge  to  fair  England,  her  Church, 

and  her  Crown. 


XXI. 

1  Alas  ! '  Matilda  said,  '  that  strain, 
Good  harper,  now  is  heard  in  vain  ! 
The  time  has  been  at  such  a  sound 
When  Rokeby's  vassals  gathered  round, 
An  hundred  manly  hearts  would  bound ; 
But  now,  the  stirring  verse  we  hear 
Like  trump  in  dying  soldier's  ear! 
Listless  and  sad  the  notes  we  own, 
The  power  to  answer  them  is  flown. 
Yet  not  without  his  meet  applause 
Be  he  that  sings  the  rightful  cause, 
Even  when  the  crisis  of  its  fate 
To  human  eye  seems  desperate. 
While  Rokeby's  heir  such  power  retains, 
Let  this  slight  guerdon  pay  thy  pains  :  — 
And  lend  thy  harp ;  I  fain  would  try 
If  my  poor  skill  can  aught  supply, 
Ere  yet  I  leave  my  fathers'  hall, 
To  mourn  the  cause  in  which  we  fall.' 


XXII. 

The  harper  with  a  downcast  look 
And  trembling  hand  her  bounty  took. 
As  yet  the  conscious  pride  of  art 
Had  steeled  him  in  his  treacherous  part ; 
A  powerful  spring  of  force  unguessed 
That  hath  each  gentler  mood  suppressed, 
And  reigned  in  many  a  human  breast, 
From  his  that  plans  the  red  campaign 
To  his  that  wastes  the  woodland  reign. 


3i» 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL    WORKS. 


The  failing  wing,  the  blood-shot  eye 
The  sportsman  marks  with  apathy, 
Each  feeling  of  his  victim's  ill 
Drowned  in  his  own  successful  skill. 
The  veteran,  too,  who  now  no  more 
Aspires  to  head  the  battle's  roar, 
Loves  still  the  triumph  of  his  art, 
And  traces  on  the  pencilled  chart 
Some  stern  invader's  destined  way 
Through  blood  and  ruin  to  his  prey ; 
Patriots  to  death,  and  towns  to  flame 
He  dooms,  to  raise  another's  name, 
And  shares  the  guilt,  though  not  the  fame. 
What  pays  him  for  his  span  of  time 
Spent  in  premeditating  crime  ? 
What  against  pity  arms  his  heart? 
It  is  the  conscious  pride  of  art. 

XXIII. 

But  principles  in  Edmund's  mind 
Were  baseless,  vague,  and  undefined. 
His  soul,  like  bark  with  rudder  lost, 
On  passion's  changeful  tide  was  tost ; 
Nor  vice  nor  virtue  had  the  power 
Beyond  the  impression  of  the  hour ; 
And  O,  when  passion  rules,  how  rare 
The  hours  that  fall  to  Virtue's  share ! 
Yet  now  she  roused  her  —  for  the  pride 
That  lack  of  sterner  guilt  supplied 
Could  scarce  support  him  when  arose 
The  lay  that  mourned  Matilda's  woes. 

&ang. 

THE   FAREWELL. 

'  The  sound  of  Rokeby's  woods  I  hear, 

They  mingle  with  the  song : 
Dark  Greta's  voice  is  in  mine  ear, 

I  must  not  hear  them  long. 
From  every  loved  and  native  haunt 

The  native  heir  must  stray, 
And,  like  a  ghost  whom  sunbeams  daunt, 

Must  part  before  the  day. 

'  Soon  from  the  halls  my  fathers  reared, 

Their  scutcheons  may  descend, 
A  line  so  long  beloved  and  feared 

May  soon  obscurely  end. 
No  longer  here  Matilda's  tone 

Shall  bid  these  echoes  swell ; 
Yet  shall  they  hear  her  proudly  own 

The  cause  in  which  we  fell.' 

The  lady  paused,  and  then  again 
Resumed  the  lay  in  loftier  strain.  — 

XXIV. 

4  Let  our  halls  and  towers  decay, 
Be  our  name  and  line  forgot, 


Lands  and  manors  pass  away,  — 
We  but  share  our  monarch's  lot. 

If  no  more  our  annals  show 
Battles  won  and  banners  taken, 

Still  in  death,  defeat,  and  woe, 
Ours  be  loyalty  unshaken ! 

'  Constant  still  in  danger's  hour, 

Princes  owned  our  fathers'  aid  ; 
Lands  and  honors,  wealth  and  power, 

Well  their  loyalty  repaid. 
Perish  wealth  and  power  and  pride, 

Mortal  boons  by  mortals  given ! 
But  let  constancy  abide, 

Constancy 's  the  gift  of  Heaven. 

XXV. 

While  thus  Matilda's  lay  was  heard, 

A  thousand  thoughts  in  Edmund  stirred. 

In  peasant  life  he  might  have  known 

As  fair  a  face,  as  sweet  a  tone  ; 

But  village  notes  could  ne'er  supply 

That  rich  and  varied  melody, 

And  ne'er  in  cottage  maid  was  seen 

The  easy  dignity  of  mien, 

Claiming  respect  yet  waiving  state, 

That  marks  the  daughters  of  the  great. 

Yet  not  perchance  had  these  alone 

His  scheme  of  purposed  guilt  o'erthrown ; 

But  while  her  energy  of  mind 

Superior  rose  to  griefs  combined, 

Lending  its  kindling  to  her  eye, 

Giving  her  form  new  majesty,  — 

To  Edmund's  thought  Matilda  seemed 

The  very  object  he  had  dreamed 

When,  long  ere  guilt  his  soul  had  known. 

In  Winston  bowers  he  mused  alone, 

Taxing  his  fancy  to  combine 

The  face,  the  air,  the  voice  divine. 

Of  princess  fair  by  cruel  fate 

Reft  of  her  honors,  power,  and  state, 

Till  to  her  rightful  realm  restored 

By  destined  hero's  conquering  sword. 

xxvi. 

'  Such  was  my  vision  ! '  Edmund  thought ; 

*  And  have  I  then  the  ruin  wrought 

Of  such  a  maid  that  fancy  ne'er 

In  fairest  vision  formed  her  peer  ? 

Was  it  my  hand  that  could  unclose 

The  postern  to  her  ruthless  foes  ? 

Foes  lost  to  honor,  law,  and  faith, 

Their  kindest  mercy  sudden  death  ! 

Have  I  done  this?  I,  who  have  swore 

That  if  the  globe  such  angel  bore, 

I  would  have  traced  its  circle  broad 

To  kiss  the  ground  on  which  she  trode  !  — 

And  now  —  O,  would  that  earth  would  rive 

And  close  uDon  me  while  alive  !  — 


ROKEBY. 


319 


Is  there  no  hope  ?  —  is  all  then  lost  ?  — 

Bertram  's  already  on  his  post !  , 

Even  now  beside  the  hall's  arched  door 

I  saw  his  shadow  cross  the  floor ! 

He  was  to  wait  my  signal  strain  — 

A  little  respite  thus  we  gain : 

By  what  I  heard  the  menials  say, 

Young  Wycliffe's  troop  are  on  their  way  - 

Alarm  precipitates  the  crime  ! 

My  harp  must  wear  away  the  time.'  — 

And  then  in  accents  faint  and  low 

He  faltered  forth  a  tale  of  woe. 

XXVII. 

Bailatf. 

'  "  And  whither  would  you  lead  me  then  ? 

Quoth  the  friar  of  orders  gray  ; 
And  the  ruffians  twain  replied  again, 

"  By  a  dying  woman  to  pray."  — 

' "  I  see,"  he  said,  "  a  lovely  sight, 

A  sight  bodes  little  harm, 
A  lady  as  a  lily  bright 

With  an  infant  on  her  arm."  — 

1  "  Then  do  thine  office,  friar  gray, 
And  see  thou  shrive  her  free ! 

Else  shall  the  sprite  that  parts  to-night 
Fling  all  its  guilt  on  thee. 

'  "  Let  mass  be  said  and  trentrals  read 
When  thou  'rt  to  convent  gone, 

And  bid  the  bell  of  Saint  Benedict 
Toll  out  its  deepest  tone." 

1  The  shrift  is  done,  the  friar  is  gone, 

Blindfolded  as  he  came  — 
Next  morning  all  in  Littlecot  Hall 

Were  weeping  for  their  dame. 

'  Wild  Darrell  is  an  altered  man, 

The  village  crones  can  tell ; 
He  looks  pale  as  clay  and  strives  to  pray, 

If  he  hears  the  convent  bell. 

1  If  prince  or  peer  cross  Darrell's  way, 
He  '11  beard  him  in  his  pride  — 

If  he  meet  a  friar  of  orders  gray, 
He  droops  and  turns  aside.' 

XXVIII. 

*  Harper  !  methinks  thy  magic  lays,' 
Matilda  said,  'can  goblins  raise  ! 
Wellnigh  my  fancy  can  discern 
Near  the  dark  porch  a  visage  stern  ; 
E'en  now  in  yonder  shadowy  nook 
I  see  it !  —  Redmond,  Wilfrid,  look  !  —  * 
"A  human  form  distinct  and  clear  — 


God,  for  thy  mercy  !  —  It  draws  near ! ' 

She  saw  too  true.     Stride  after  stride, 

The  centre  of  that  chamber  wide 

Fierce  Bertram  gained ;  then  made  a  stand, 

And,  proudly  waving  with  his  hand, 

Thundered —  '  Be  still,  upon  your  lives  !  — 

He  bleeds  who  speaks,  he  dies  who  strives.' 

Behind  their  chief  the  robber  crew, 

Forth  from  the  darkened  portal  drew 

In  silence  —  save  that  echo  dread 

Returned  their  heavy  measured  tread. 

The  lamp's  uncertain  lustre  gave 

Their  arms  to  gleam,  their  plumes  to  wave  ; 

File  after  file  in  order  pass, 

Like  forms  on  Banquo's  mystic  glass. 

Then,  halting  at  their  leader's  sign, 

At  once  they  formed  and  curved  their  line, 

Hemming  within  its  crescent  drear 

Their  victims  like  a  herd  of  deer. 

Another  sign,  and  to  the  aim 

Levelled  at  once  their  muskets  came. 

As  waiting  but  their  chieftain's  word 

To  make  their  fatal  volley  heard. 

XXIX. 

Back  in  a  heap  the  menials  drew ; 

Yet,  even  in  mortal  terror  true, 

Their  pale  and  startled  group  oppose 

Between  Matilda  and  the  foes. 

'  O,  haste  thee,  Wilfrid  ! '  Redmond  cried  ; 

'  Undo  that  wicket  by  thy  side ! 

Bear  hence  Matilda  —  gain  the  wood 

The  pass  may  be  awhile  made  good  — 

Thy  band  ere  this  must  sure  be  nigh  — 

0  speak  not  —  dally  not  —  but  fly  ! ' 
While  yet  the  crowd  their  motions  hide, 
Through  the  low  wicket  door  they  glide. 
Through  vaulted  passages  they  wind, 

In  Gothic  intricacy  twined  ; 

Wilfrid  half  led  and  half  he  bore 

Matilda  to  the  postern  door, 

And  safe  beneath  the  forest  tree, 

The  lady  stands  at  liberty. 

The  moonbeams,  the  fresh  gale's  caress, 

Renewed  suspended  consciousness  ;  — 

'  Where  's  Redmond  ?  '  eagerly  she  cries  : 

1  Thou  answer'st  not  —  he  dies  !  he  dies  ! 
And  thou  hast  left  him  all  bereft 

Of  mortal  aid  —  with  murderers  left ! 
I  know  it  well  —  he  would  not  yield 
His  sword  to  man  —  his  doom  is  sealed  ! 
For  my  scorned  life,  which  thou  hast  bought 
At  price  of  his,  I  thank  thee  not.' 

XXX. 

The  unjust  reproach,  the  angry  look, 
The  heart  of  Wilfrid  could  not  brook. 
'  Lady,'  he  said,  '  my  band  so  near, 
In. safety  thou  mayst  rest  thee  here. 


|20 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL   WORKS. 


For  Redmond's  death  thou  shalt  not  mourn. 
If  mine  can  buy  his  safe  return.' 
He  turned  away  —  his  heart  throbbed  high, 
The  tear  was  bursting  from  his  eye  ; 
The  sense  of  her  injustice  pressed 
Upon  the  maid's  distracted  breast,  — 
'  Stay,  Wilfrid,  stay  !  all  aid  is  vain  ! ' 
He  heard  but  turned  him  not  again  ! 
He  reaches  now  the  postern-door, 
Now  enters  —  and  is  seen  no  more. 


XXXI. 

With  all  the  agony  that  e'er 
Was  gendered  'twixt  suspense  and  fear, 
She  watched  the  line  of  windows  tall 
Whose  Gothic  lattice  lights  the  Hall, 
Distinguished  by  the  paly  red 
The  lamps  in  dim  reflection  shed, 
While  all  beside  in  wan  moonlight 
Each  grated  casement  glimmered  white. 
No  sight  of  harm,  no  sound  of  ill, 
It  is  a  deep  and  midnight  still. 
Who  looked  upon  the  scene  had  guessed 
All  in  the  castle  were  at  rest  — 
When  sudden  on  the  windows  shone 
A  lightning  flash  just  seen  and  gone  ! 
A  shot  is  heard  —  again  the  flame 
Flashed  thick  and  fast  — a  volley  came  ! 
Then  echoed  wildly  from  within 
Of  shout  and  scream  the  mingled  din, 
And  weapon-clash  and  maddening  cry, 
Of  those  who  kill  and  those  who  die  !  — 
As  filled  the  hall  with  sulphurous  smoke, 
More  red,  more  dark,  the  death-flash  broke, 
And  forms  were  on  the  lattice  cast 
That  struck  or  struggled  as  they  past. 

XXXII. 

What  sounds  upon  the  midnight  wind 

Approach  so  rapidly  behind  ? 

It  is,  it  is,  the  tramp  of  steeds, 

Matilda  hears  the  sound,  she  speeds, 

Seizes  upon  the  leader's  rein  — 

'  O,  haste  to  aid  ere  aid  be  vain  ! 

Fly  to  the  postern  —  gain  the  hall ! ' 

From  saddle  spring  the  troopers  all ; 

Their  gallant  steeds  at  liberty 

Run  wild  along  the  moonlight  lea. 

But  ere  they  burst  upon  the  scene 

Full  stubborn  had  the  conflict  been. 

When  Bertram  marked  Matilda's  flight, 

1 1  gave  the  signal  for  the  fight ; 

And  Kokeby's  veterans,  seamed  with  scars 

Of  Scotland's  and  of  Erin's  wars, 

Their  momentary  panic  o'er, 

Stood  to  the  arms  which  then  they  bore  — 

For  they  were  weaponed  and  prepared 

Their  mistress  on  her  way  to  guard. 

Then  cheered  them  to  the  fight  O'Neale. 


Then  pealed  the  shot,  and  clashed  the  steel; 
The  war-smoke  soon  with  sable  breath 
Darkened  the  scene  of  blood  and  death, 
While  on  the  few  defenders  close 
The  bandits  with  redoubled  blows, 
And,  twice  driven  back,  yet  fierce  and  fell 
Renew  the  charge  with  frantic  yell. 

XXXIII. 

Wilfrid  has  fallen  —  but  o'er  him  stood 
Young  Redmond  soiled  with   smoke   and 

blood, 
Cheering  his  mates  with  heart  and  hand 
Still  to  make  good  their  desperate  stand  : 
1  Up,  comrades,  up  !     In  Rokeby  halls 
Ne'er  be  it  said  our  courage  falls. 
What !  faint  ye  for  their  savage  cry, 
Or  do  the  smoke-wreaths  daunt  your  eye? 
These  rafters  have  returned  a  shout 
As  loud  at  Rokeby's  wassail  rout, 
As  thick  a  smoke  these  hearths  have  given 
At  Hallow-tide  or  Christmas-even. 
Stand  to  it  yet !  renew  the  fight 
For  Rokeby's  and  Matilda's  right  ! 
These  slaves  !  they  dare  not  hand  to  hand 
Bide  buffet  from  a  true  man's  brand.' 
Impetuous,  active,  fierce,  and  young, 
Upon  the  advancing  foes  he  sprung. 
Woe  to  the  wretch  at  whom  is  bent 
His  brandished  falchion's  sheer  descent ! 
Backward  they  scattered  as  he  came, 
Like  wolves  before  the  levin  flame, 
When,  mid  their  howling  conclave  driven. 
Hath  glanced  the  thunderbolt  of  heaven. 
Bertram  rushed  on  —  but  Harpool  clasped 
His  knees,  although  in  death  he  gasped, 
His  falling  corpse  before  him  flung, 
And  round  the  trammelled  ruffian  clung. 
Just  then  the  soldiers  filled  the  dome, 
And  shouting  charged  the  felons  home 
So  fiercely  that  in  panic  dread 
They  broke,  they  yielded,  fell,  or  fled, 
Bertram's  stern  voice  they  heed  no  more, 
Though  heard  above  the  battle's  roar; 
While,  trampling  down  the  dying  man, 
He  strove  with  volleyed  threat  and  ban 
In  scorn  of  odds,  in  fate's  despite, 
To  rally  up  the  desperate  fight. 

xxxiv. 
Soon  murkier  clouds  the  hall  enfold 
Than  e'er  from  battle-thunders  rolled, 
So  dense  the  combatants  scarce  know 
To  aim  or  to  avoid  the  blow. 
Smothering  and  blindfold  grows  the  fight  — 
But  soon  shall  dawn  a  dismal  light ! 
Mid  cries  and  clashing  arms  there  came 
The  hollow  sound  of  rushing  flame  ; 
New  horrors  on  the  tumult  dire 
Arise  —  the  castle  is  on  fire  ! 


ROKEBY. 


32: 


Doubtful  if  chance  had  cast  the  brand 
Or  frantic  Bertram's  desperate  hand. 
Matilda  saw  —  for  frequent  broke 
From  the  dim  casements  gusts  of  smoke, 
Yon  tower,  which  late  so  clear  denned 
On  the  fair  hemisphere  reclined 
That,  pencilled  on  its  azure  pure, 
The  eye  could  count  each  embrasure, 
Now,  swathed  within  the  sweeping  cloud. 
Seems  giant-spectre  in  his  shroud  ; 


Till,  from  each  loop-hole  flashing  light, 
A  spout  of  fire  shines  ruddy  bright, 
And,  gathering  to  united  glare, 
Streams  high  into  the  midnight  air  ; 
A  dismal  beacon,  far  and  wide 
That  wakened  Greta's  slumbering  side. 
Soon  all  beneath,  through  gallery  long 
And  pendent  arch,  the  fire  flashed  strong, 
Snatching  whatever  could  maintain, 
Raise,  or  extend  its  furious  reign ; 


322 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL   WORKS. 


Startling  with  closer  cause  of  dread 
The  females  who  the  conflict  fled, 
And  now  rushed  forth  upon  the  plain, 
Filling  the  air  with  clamors  vain. 

xxxv. 

But  ceased  not  yet  the  hall  within 

The  shriek,  the  shout,  .the  carnage-din, 

Till  bursting  lattices  give  proof 

The  flames  have  caught  the  raftered  roof. 

What !  wait  they  till  its  beams  amain 

Crash  on  the  slayers  and  the  slain  ? 

The  alarm  is  caught  —  the  drawbridge  falls, 

The  warriors  hurry  from  the  walls, 

But  by  the  conflagration's  light 

Upon  the  lawn  renew  the  fight. 

Each  straggling  felon  down  was  hewed, 

Not  one  could  gain  the  sheltering  wood ; 

But  forth  the  affrighted  harper  sprung, 

And  to  Matilda's  robe  he  clung. 

Her  shriek,  entreaty,  and  command 

Stopped  the  pursuer's  lifted  hand. 

Denzil  and  he  alive  were  ta'en  ; 

The  rest  save  Bertram  all  are  slain. 

xxxvi. 

And  where  is  Bertram? — Soaring  high, 
The  general  flame  ascends  the  sky  ; 
In  gathered  group  the  soldiers  gaze 
Upon  the  broad  and  roaring  blaze, 
When,  like  infernal  demon,  sent 
Red  from  his  penal  element, 
To  plague  and  to  pollute  the  air, 
His  face  all  gore,  on  fire  his  hair, 
Forth  from  the  central  mass  of  smoke 
The  giant  form  of  Bertram  broke ! 
His  brandished  sword  on  high  he  rears, 
Then  plunged  among  opposing  spears ; 
Round  his  left  arm  his  mantle  trussed, 
Received  and  foiled  three  lances'  thrust; 
Nor  these  his  headlong  course  withstood, 
Like  reeds  he  snapped  the  tough  ashwood. 
In  vain  his  foes  around  him  clung; 
With  matchless  force  aside  he  flung 
Their  boldest,  —  as  the  bull  at  bay 
Tosses  the  ban-dogs  from  his  way, 
Through  forty  foes  his  path  he  made, 
And  safely  gained  the  forest  glade. 

XXXVII. 

Scarce  was  this  final  conflict  o'er 
When  from  the  postern  Redmond  bore 
Wilfrid,  who,  as  of  life  bereft, 
Had  in  the  fatal  hall  been  left, 
Deserted  there  by  all  his  train; 
But  Redmond  saw  and  turned  again. 
Beneath  an  oak  he  laid  him  down 
That  in  the  blaze  gleamed  ruddy  brown, 
And  then  his  mantle's  clasp  undid ; 


Matilda  held  his  drooping  head, 
Till,  given  to  breathe  the  freer  air, 
Returning  life  repaid  their  care. 
He  gazed  on  them  with  heavy  sigh,  — 
'  I  could  have  wished  even  thus  to  die  ! 
No  more  he  said,  ^— for  now  with  speed 
Each  trooper  had  regained  his  steed ; 
The  ready  palfreys  stood  arrayed 
For  Redmond  and  for  Rokeby's  maid  ; 
Two  Wilfrid  on  his  horse  sustain, 
One  leads  his  charger  by  the  rein. 
But  oft  Matilda  looked  behind, 
As  up  the  vale  of  Tees  they  wind, 
Where  far  the  mansion  of  her  sires 
Beaconed  the  dale  with  midnight  fires. 
In  gloomy  arch  above  them  spread, 
The  clouded  heaven  lowered  bloody  red ; 
Beneath  in  sombre  light  the  flood 
Appeared  to  roll  in  waves  of  blood. 
Then  one  by  one  was  heard  to  fall 
The  tower,  the  donjon-keep,  the  hall. 
Each  rushing  down  with  thunder  sound 
A  space  the  conflagration  drowned ; 
Till  gathering  strength  again  it  rose, 
Announced  its  triumph  in  its  close, 
Shook  wide  its  light  the  landscape  o'er, 
Then  sunk  —  and  Rokeby  was  no  more  ! 


fiokebjj. 


CANTO    SIXTH. 


The  summer  sun,  whose  early  power 
Was  wont  to  gild  Matilda's  bower 
And  rouse  her  with  his  matin  ray 
Her  duteous  orisons  to  pay, 
That  morning  sun  has  three  times  seen 
The  flowers  unfold  on  Rokeby  green, 
But  sees  no  more  the  slumbers  fly 
From  fair  Matilda's  hazel  eye ; 
That  morning  sun  has  three  times  broke 
On  Rokeby's  glades  of  elm  and  oak, 
But,  rising  from  their  sylvan  screen, 
Marks  no  gray  turrets  glance  between. 
A  shapeless  mass  lie  keep  and  tower, 
That,  hissing  to  the  morning  shower, 
Can  but  with  smouldering  vapor  pay 
The  early  smile  of  summer  day. 
The  peasant,  to  his  labor  bound, 
Pauses  to  view  the  blackened  mound, 
Striving  amid  the  ruined  space 
Each  well-remembered  spot  to  trace. 
That  length  of  frail  and  fire-scorched  wall 
Once  screened  the  hospitable  hall ; 


ROKEBY. 


323 


When  yonder  broken  arch  was  whole, 
'T  was  there  was  dealt  the  weekly  dole ; 
And  where  yon  tottering  columns  nod 
The  chapel  sent  the  hymn  to  God. 
So  flits  the  world's  uncertain  span ! 
Nor  zeal  for  God  nor  love  for  man 
Gives  mortal  monuments  a  date 
Beyond  the  power  of  Time  and  Fate. 
The  towers  must  share  the  builder's  doom; 
Ruin  is  theirs,  and  his  a  tomb : 
But  better  boon  benignant  Heaven 
To  Faith  and  Charity  has  given, 
And  bids  the  Christian  hope  sublime 
Transcend  the  bounds  of  Fate  and  Time. 

11. 

Now  the  third  night  of  summer  came 
Since  that  which  witnessed  Rokeby's  flame. 
On  Brignall  cliffs  and  Scargill  brake 
The  owlet's  homilies  awake, 
The  bittern  screamed  from  rush  and  flag, 
The  raven  slumbered  on  his  crag, 
Forth  from  his  den  the  otter  drew,  — 
Grayling  and  trout  their  tyrant  knew, 


As  between  reed  and  sedge  he  peers, 
With   fierce  round   snout   and   sharpened 

ears, 
Or  prowling  by  the  moonbeam  cool 
Watches  the  stream  or  swims  the  pool ;  — 
Perched  on  his  wonted  eyrie  high, 
Sleep  sealed  the  tercelet's  wearied  eye, 
That  all  the  day  had  watched  so  well 
The  cushat  dart  across  the  dell. 
In  dubious  beam  reflected  shone 
That  lofty  cliff  of  pale  gray  stone 
Beside  whose  base  the  secret  cave 
To  rapine  late  a  refuge  gave. 
The  crag's  wild  crest  of  copse  and  yew 
On  Greta's  breast  dark  shadows  threw, 
Shadows  that  met  or  shunned  the  sight 
With  every  change  of  fitful  light, 
As  hope  and  fear  alternate  chase 
Our  course  through  life's  uncertain  race. 

in. 

Gliding  by  crag  and  copsewood  green, 

A  solitary  form  was  seen 

To  trace  with  stealthy  pace  the  wold, 


324 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL    WORKS. 


Like  fox  that  seeks  the  midnight  fold, 
And  pauses  oft,  and  cowers  dismayed 
At  every  breath  that  stirs  the  shade. 
He  passes  now  the  ivy  bush,  — 
The  owl  has  seen  him  and  is  hush  ; 
He  passes  now  the  doddered  oak,  — 
He  heard  the  startled  raven  croak ; 
Lower  and  lower  he  descends, 
Rustle  the  leaves,  the  brushwood  bends  ; 
The  otter  hears  him  tread  the  shore, 
And  dives  and  is  beheld  no  more  ; 
And  by  the  cliff  of  pale  gray  stone 
The  midnight  wanderer  stands  alone. 
Methinks  that  by  the  moon  we  trace 
A  well-remembered  form  and  face  ! 
That  stripling  shape,  that  cheek  so  pale, 
Combine  to  tell  a  rueful  tale, 
Of  powers  misused,  of  passion's  force, 
Of  guilt,  of  grief,  and  of  remorse  ! 
'T  is  Edmund's  eye  at  every  sound 
That  flings  that  guilty  glance  around ; 
'T  is  Edmund's  trembling  haste  divides 
The  brushwood  that  the  cavern  hides ; 
And  when  its  narrow  porch  lies  bare 
'T  is  Edmund's  form  that  enters  there. 

IV. 

His  flint  and  steel  have  sparkled  bright, 
A  lamp  hath  lent  the  cavern  light. 
Fearful  and  quick  his  eye  surveys 
Each  angle  of  the  gloomy  maze. 
Since  last  he  left  that  stern  abode, 
It  seemed  as  none  its  floor  had  trode; 
Untouched  appeared  the  various  spoil, 
The  purchase  of  his  comrades'  toil; 
Masks  and  disguises  grimed  with  mud, 
Arms  broken  and  defiled  with  blood, 
And  all  the  nameless  tools  that  aid 
Night-felons  in  their  lawless  trade, 
Upon  the  gloomy  walls  were  hung 
Or  lay  in  nooks  obscurely  flung. 
Still  on  the  sordid  board  appear 
The  relics  of  the  noontide  cheer: 
Flagons  and  emptied  flasks  were  there, 
And  bench  o'erthrown  and  shattered  chair; 
And  all  around  the  semblance  showed, 
As  when  the  final  revel  glowed, 
When  the  red  sun  was  setting  fast 
And  parting  pledge  Guy  Denzil  past. 
1  To  Rokeby  treasure-vaults ! '  they  quaffed, 
And  shouted  loud  and  wildly  laughed, 
Poured  maddening  from  the  rocky  door, 
And  parted  —  to  return  no  more  ! 
Thev  found  in  Rokeby  vaults  their  doom,— 
A  bloody  death,  a  burning  tomb! 

v. 

There  his  own  peasant  dress  he  spies, 
Doffed  to  assume  that  quaint  disguise, 


And  shuddering  thought  upon  his  glee 

When  pranked  in  garb  of  minstrelsy. 

'  O,  be  the  fatal  art  accurst,' 

He  cried,  '  that  moved  my  folly  first, 

Till,  bribed  by  bandits'  base  applause, 

I  burst  through  God's  and  Nature's  laws  ! 

Three  summer  days  are  scantly  past 

Since  I  have  trod  this  cavern  last, 

A  thoughtless  wretch,  and  prompt  to  err  — 

But  O,  as  yet  no  murderer ! 

Even  now  I  list  my  comrades'  cheer, 

That  general  laugh  is  in  mine  ear 

Which  raised  my  pulse  and  steeled  my  heart, 

As  I  rehearsed  my  treacherous  part  — 

And  would  that  all  since  then  could  seem 

The  phantom  of  a  fever's  dream  ! 

But  fatal  memory  notes  too  well 

The  horrors  of  the  dying  yell 

From  my  despairing  mates  that  broke 

When  flashed  the  fire  and  rolled  the  smoke, 

When  the  avengers  shouting  came 

And  hemmed  us  'twixt  the  sword  and  flame  ! 

My  frantic  flight  --  the  lifted  brand  — 

That  angel's  interposing  hand  !  — 

If  for  my  life  from  slaughter  freed 

I  yet  could  pay  some  grateful  meed  ! 

Perchance  this  object  of  my  quest 

May  aid  '  —  he  turned  nor  spoke  the  rest. 


Due  northward  from  the  rugged  hearth 

With  paces  five  he  meets  the  earth, 

Then  toiled  with  mattock  to  explore 

The  entrails  of  the  cavern  floor, 

Nor  paused  till  deep  beneath  the  ground 

His  search  a  small  steel  casket  found. 

Just  as  he  stooped  to  loose  its  hasp 

His  shoulder  felt  a  giant  grasp  ; 

He  started  and  looked  up  aghast, 

Then  shrieked  !  —  'T  was  Bertram  held  him 

fast. 
1  Fear  not ! '  he  said  ;  but  who  could  hear 
That  deep  stern  voice  and  cease  to  fear? 
1  Fear  not !  —  By  heaven,  he  shakes  as  much 
As  partridge  in  the  falcon's  clutch  :  ' 
He  raised  him  and  unloosed  his  hold, 
While  from  the  opening  casket  rolled 
A  chain  and  reliquaire  of  gold. 
Bertram  beheld  it  with  surprise, 
Gazed  on  its  fashion  and  device, 
Then,  cheering  Edmund  as  he  could, 
Somewhat  he  smoothed  his  rugged  mood, 
For  still  the  youth's  half-lifted  eye 
Quivered  with  terror's  agony, 
And  sidelong  glanced  as  to  explore 
In  meditated  flight  the  door. 
1  Sit,'  Bertram  said,  '  from  danger  free  : 
Thou  canst  not  and  thou  shalt  not  flee. 
Chance  brings  me  hither;  hill  and  plain 
I  've  sought  for  refuge-place  in  vain. 


ROKEBY. 


325 


And  tell  me  now,  thou  aguish  boy, 

What  makest  thou  here  ?  what  means  this 

toy?* 
Denzil  and  thou,  I  marked,  were  ta'en  ; 
What  lucky  chance  unbound  your  chain  ? 
I  deemed,  long  since  on  Baliol's  tower, 
Your  heads   were   warped    with   sun   and 

shower. 
Tell  me  the  whole  —  and  mark  !  naught  e'er 
Chafes  me  like  falsehood  or  like  fear.' 
Gathering  his  courage  to  his  aid 
But  trembling  still,  the  youth  obeyed. 

VII. 

*  Denzil  and  I  two  nights  passed  o'er 

In  fetters  on  the  dungeon  floor. 

A  guest  the  third  sad  morrow  brought ;  . 

Our  hold,  dark  Oswald  Wycliffe  sought, 

And  eyed  my  comrade  long  askance 

With  fixed  and  penetrating  glance. 

"Guy    Denzil  art    thou    called  ?"—"  The 

same." 
"  At  Court  who  served  wild  Buckinghame  ; 
Thence  banished,  won  a  keeper's  place, 
So  Villi ers  willed,  in  Marwood-chase ; 
That  lost —  I  need  not  tell  thee  why  — 
Thou  madest  thy  wit  thy  wants  supply, 
Then  fought  for  Rokeby :  — have  I  guessed 
My  prisoner  right  ?  "  —  "  At  thy  behest."  — 
He  paused  awhile,  and  then  went  on 
With  low  and  confidential  tone  ;  — 
Me,  as  I  judge,  not  then  he  saw 
Close  nestled  in  my  couch  of  straw.  — 
"  List  to  me,  Guy.    Thou  know'st  the  great 
Have  frequent  need  of  what  they  hate : 
Hence,  in  their  favor  oft  we  see 
Unscrupled,  useful  men  like  thee. 
Were  I  disposed  to  bid  thee  live, 
What  pledge  of  faith  hast  thou  to  give  ?  " 

VIII. 

'  The  ready  fiend  who  never  yet 
Hath  failed  to  sharpen  Denzil's  wit 
Prompted  his  lie  —  "  His  only  child 
Should  rest  his  pledge." —The  baron  smiled, 
And  turned  to  me  —  "  Thou  art  his  son  ?  " 
I  bowed  —  our  fetters  were  undone, 
And  we  were  led  to  hear  apart 
A  dreadful  lesson  of  his  art. 
Wilfrid,  he  said,  his  heir  and  son, 
Had  fair  Matilda's  favor  won  ; 
And  long  since  had  their  union  been 
But  for  her  father's  bigot  spleen, 
Whose  brute  and  blindfold  party-rage 
Would,  force  perforce,  her  hand  engage 
To  a  base  kern  of  Irish  earth, 
Unknown  his  lineage  and  his  birth, 
Save  that  a  dying  ruffian  bore 
The  infant  brat  to  Rokeby  door. 


Gentle  restraint,  he  said,  would  lead 
Old  Rokeby  to  enlarge  his  creed ; 
But  fair  occasion  he  must  find 
For  such  restraint  well  meant  and  kind, 
The  knight  being  rendered  to  his  charge 
But  as  a  prisoner  at  large. 


1  He  schooled  us  in  a  well-forged  tale 

Of  scheme  the  castle  walls  to  scale, 

To  which  was  leagued  each  Cavalier 

That  dwells  upon  the  Tyne  and  Wear, 

That  Rokeby,  his  parole  forgot, 

Had  dealt  with  us  to  aid  the  plot. 

Such  was  the  charge  which  Denzil's  zeal 

Of  hate  to  Rokeby  and  O'Neale 

Proffered  as  witness  to  make  good, 

Even  though  the  forfeit  were  their  blood. 

I  scrupled  until  o'er  and  o'er 

His  prisoners'  safety  Wycliffe  swore ; 

And  then  —  alas  !  what  needs  there  more  ? 

I  knew  I  should  not  live  to  say 

The  proffer  I  refused  that  day ; 

Ashamed  to  live,  yet  loath  to  die, 

I  soiled  me  with  their  infamy  ! ' 

1  Poor  youth  ! '  said  Bertram, '  wavering  still, 

Unfit  alike  for  good  or  ill ! 

But  what  fell  next  ? '  —  '  Soon  as  at  large 

Was  scrolled  and  signed  our  fatal  charge, 

There  never  yet  on  tragic  stage 

Was  seen  so  well  a  painted  rage 

As  Oswald's  showed  !  With  loud  alarm 

He  called  his  garrison  to  arm  ; 

From  tower  to  tower,  from  post  to  post, 

He  hurried  as  if  all  were  lost ; 

Consigned  to  dungeon  and  to  chain 

The  good  old  knight  and  all  his  train  ; 

Warned  each  suspected  Cavalier 

Within  his  limits  to  appear 

To-morrow  at  the  hour  of  noon 

In  the  high  church  of  Eglistone.'  — 


1  Of  Eglistone  !  —  Even  now  I  passed,' 
Said  Bertram,  '  as  the  night  closed  fast ; 
Torches  and  cressets  gleamed  around, 
I  heard  the  saw  and  hammer  sound, 
And  I  could  mark  they  toiled  to  raise 
A  scaffold,  hung  with  sable  baize, 
Which  the  grim  headsman's  scene  displayed, 
Block,  axe,  and  sawdust  ready  laid. 
Some  evil  deed  will  there  be  done 
Unless  Matilda  wed  his  son  ;  — 
She  loves  him  not  —  't  is  shrewdly  guessed 
That  Redmond  rules  the  damsel's  breast. 
This  is  a  turn  of  Oswald's  skill ; 
But  I  may  meet,  and  foil  him  still !  — 
How  earnest  thou  to  thy  freedom  ? ' — '  There 
Lies  mystery  more  dark  and  rare. 


326 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL    WORKS. 


In  midst  of  Wycliffe's  well-feigned  rage, 

A  scroll  was  offered  by  a  page, 

Who  told  a  muffled  horseman  late 

Had  left  it  at  the  Castle-gate. 

He   broke    the  seal — his   cheek    showed 

change, 
Sudden,  portentous,  wild,  and  strange ; 
The  mimic  passion  of  his  eye 
Was  turned  to  actual  agony  ; 
His  hand  like  summer  sapling  shook, 
Terror  and  guilt  were  in  his  look. 
Denzil  he  judged  in  time  of  need 
Fit  counsellor  for  evil  deed ; 
And  thus  apart  his  counsel  broke, 
While  with  a  ghastly  smile  he  spoke : 


XI. 

'  "  As  in  the  pageants  of  the  stage 

The  dead  awake  in  this  wild  age, 

Mortham — whom  all  men  deemed  decreed 

In  his  own  deadly  snare  to  bleed, 

Slain  by  a  bravo  whom  o'er  sea 

He  trained  to  aid  in  murdering  me, — 

Mortham  has  'scaped  !     The  coward  shot 

The  steed  but  harmed  the  rider  not." ' 

Here  with  an  execration  fell 

Bertram  leaped  up  and  paced  the  cell :  — 

'  Thine  own  gray  head  or  bosom  dark,' 

He  muttered,  '  may  be  surer  mark  ! ' 

Then  sat  and  signed  to  Edmund,  pale 

With  terror,  to  resume  his  tale. 

'  Wycliffe   went    on  :  —  "  Mark   with    what 

flights 
Of  wildered  reverie  he  writes :  — 

HL\)t  Ilctter. 

•  "  Ruler  of  Mortham's  destiny ! 

Though  dead,  thy  victim  lives  to  thee. 

Once  had  he  all  that  binds  to  life, 

A  lovely  child,  a  lovelier  wife ; 

Wealth,    fame,    and    friendship    were    his 

own  — 
Thou  gavest  the  word  and  they  are  flown. 
Mark  how  he  pays  thee  :  to  thy  hand 
He  yields  his  honors  and  his  land, 
One  boon  premised  ;  —  restore  his  child  ! 
And,  from  his  native  land  exiled, 
Mortham  no  more  returns  to  claim 
His  lands,  his  honors,  or  his  name; 
Refuse  him  this  and  from  the  slain 
Thou  shalt  see  Mortham  rise  again."  — 

XII. 

'  This  billet  while  the  baron  read, 
His  faltering  accents  showed  his  dread  ; 
He  pressed  his  forehead  with  his  palm, 
Then  took  a  scornful  tone  and  calm ; 
"  Wild  as  the  winds,  as  billows  wild ! 


What  wot  I  of  his  spouse  or  child  ? 
Hither  he  brought  a  joyous  dame, 
Unknown  her  lineage  or  her  name  : 
Her  in  some  frantic  fit  he  slew  ; 
The  nurse  and  child  in  fear  withdrew. 
Heaven  be  my  witness,  wist  I  where 
To  find  this  youth,  my  kinsman's  heir, 
Unguerdoned  I  would  give  with  joy 
The  father's  arms  to  fold  his  boy, 
And  Mortham's  lands  and  towers  resign 
To  the  just  heirs  cf  Mortham's  line." 
Thou  know'st  that  scarcely  e'en  his  fear 
Suppresses  Denzil's  cynic  sneer;  — 
"  Then  happy  is  thy  vassal's  part," 
He  said,  "  to  ease  his  patron's  heart ! 
In  thine  own  jailer's  watchful  care 
Lies  Mortham's  just  and  rightful  heir  ; 
Thy  generous  wish  is  fully  won, — 
Redmond  O'Neale  is  Mortham's  son."  — 

XIII. 

'  Up  starting  with  a  frenzied  look, 

His  clenched  hand  the  baron  shook  : 

"  Is  Hell  at  work  ?  or  dost  thou  rave, 

Or  darest  thou  palter  with  me,  slave ! 

Perchance  thou  wot'st  not,  Barnard's  towers 

Have  racks  of  strange  and  ghastly  powers." 

Denzil,  who  well  his  safety  knew, 

Firmly  rejoined,  "  I  tell  thee  true. 

Thy  racks  could  give  thee  but  to  know 

The  proofs  which  I,  untortured,  show. 

It  chanced  upon  a  winter  night 

When  early  snow  made  Stanmore  white, 

That  very  night  when  first  of  all 

Redmond  O'Neale  saw  Rokeby-hall, 

It  was  my  goodly  lot  to  gain 

A  reliquary  and  a  chain, 

Twisted  and  chased  of  massive  gold. 

Demand  not  how  the  prize  I  hold! 

It  was  not  given  nor  lent  nor  sold. 

Gilt  tablets  to  the  chain  were  hung 

With  letters  in  the  Irish  tongue. 

I  hid  my  spoil,  for  there  was  need 

That  I  should  leave  the  land  with  speed, 

Nor  then  I  deemed  it  safe  to  bear 

On  mine  own  person  gems  so  rare. 

Small  heed  I  of  the  tablets  took, 

But  since  have  spelled  them  by  the  book 

When  some  sojourn  in  Erin's  land 

Of  their  wild  speech  had  given  command. 

But  darkling  was  the  sense  ;  the  phrase 

And  language  those  of  other  days, 

Involved  of  purpose,  as  to  foil 

An  interloper's  prying  toil. 

The  words  but  not  the  sense  I  knew, 

Till  fortune  gave  the  guiding  clue. 

xiv. 
'  "  Three  days  since,  was  that  clue  revealed 
In  Thorsgill  as  I  lay  concealed, 


ROKEBY. 


327 


And  heard  at  full  when  Rokeby's  maid 
Her  uncle's  history  displayed  ; 
And  now  I  can  interpret  well 
Each  syllable  the  tablets  tell. 
Mark,  then  :  fair  Edith  was  the  jov 
Of  old  O'Neale  of  Clandeboy ; 
But  from  her  sire  and  country  fled 
In  secret  Mortham's  lord  to  wed. 
O'Neale,  his  first  resentment  o'er, 
Despatched  his  son  to  Greta's  shore, 
Enjoining  he  should  make  him  known  — 
Until  his  farther  will  were  shown  — 
To  Edith,  but  to  her  alone. 
What  of  their  ill-starred  meeting  fell 
Lord  Wycliffe  knows,  and  none  so  well. 


1 "  O'Neale  it  was  who  in  despair 
Robbed  Mortham  of  his  infant  heir  ; 
He  bred  him  in  their  nurture  wild, 
And  called  him  murdered  Connel's  child. 
Soon  died  the  nurse ;  the  clan  believed 
What  from  their  chieftain  they  received. 
His  purpose  was  that  ne'er  again 
The  boy  should  cross  the  Irish  main, 
But,  like  his  mountain  sires,  enjoy 
The  woods  and  wastes  of  Clandeboy. 
Then  on  the  land  wild  troubles  came, 
And  stronger  chieftains  urged  a  claim, 
And  wrested  from  the  old  man's  hands 
His  native  towers,  his  father's  lands. 
Unable  then  amid  the  strife 
To  guard  young  Redmond's  rights  or  life, 
Late  and  reluctant  he  restores 
The  infant  to  his  native  shores, 
With  goodly  gifts  and  letters  stored, 
With  many  a  deep  conjuring  word, 
To  Mortham  and  to  Rokeby's  lord. 
Naught  knew  the  clod  of  Irish  earth, 
Who  was  the  guide,  of  Redmond's  birth, 
But   deemed   his    chief's    commands  were 

laid 
On  both,  by  both  to  be  obeyed. 
How  he  was  wounded  by  the  way 
I  need  not,  and  I  list  not  say."  — 

XVI. 

'"  A  wondrous  tale  !  and,  grant  it  true, 
What,"  Wycliffe  answered,  "  might  I  do  ? 
Heaven  knows,  as  willingly  as  now 
I  raise  the  bonnet  from  my  brow, 
Would  I  my  kinsman's  manors  fair 
Restore  to  Mortham  or  his  heir ; 
But  Mortham  is  distraught  —  O'Neale 
Has  drawn  for  tyranny  his  steel. 
Malignant  to  our  rightful  cause 
And  trained  in  Rome's  delusive  laws. 
Hark  thee  apart!  "  They  whispered  long, 
Till  Denzil's  voice  grew  bold  and  strong : 


"  My  proofs  !  I  never  will."  he  said, 
"  Show  mortal  man  where  they  are  laid. 
Nor  hope  discovery  to  foreclose 
By  giving  me  to  feed  the  crows  : 
For  I  have  mates  at  large  who  know 
Where  I  am  wont  such  toys  to  stow. 
Free  me  from  peril  and  from  band, 
These  tablets  are  at  thy  command ; 
Nor  were  it  hard  to  form  some  train, 
To  wile  old  Mortham  o'er  the  main. 
Then,  lunatic's  nor  papist's  hand 
Should  wrest  from  thine  the  goodly  land." 
"  I  like  thy  wit,"  said  Wycliffe,  "  well ; 
But  here  in  hostage  shalt  thou  dwell. 
Thy  son,  unless  my  purpose  err, 
May  prove  the  trustier  messenger. 
A  scroll  to  Mortham  shall  he  bear 
From  me,  and  fetch  these  tokens  rare. 
Gold  shalt  thou  have,  and  that  good  store, 
And  freedom,  his  commission  o'er  ; 
But  if  his  faith  should  chance  to  fail, 
The  gibbet  frees  thee  from  the  jail." 

XVII. 

1  Meshed  in  the  net  himself  had  twined, 

What  subterfuge  could  Denzil  find  ? 

He  told  me  with  reluctant  sigh 

That  hidden  here  the  tokens  lie, 

Conjured  my  swift  return  and  aid, 

By  all  he  scoffed  and  disobeyed, 

And  looked  as  if  the  noose  were  tied 

And  I  the  priest  who  left  his  side. 

This  scroll  for  Mortham  Wycliffe  gave, 

Whom  I  must  seek  by  Greta's  wave, 

Or  in  the  hut  where  chief  he  hides, 

Where  Thorsgill's  forester  resides.  — 

Thence  chanced  it,  wandering  in  the  glade, 

That  he  descried  our  ambuscade. — 

I  was  dismissed  as  evening  fell, 

And  reached  but  now  this  rocky  cell.' 

'  Give  Oswald's  letter.'  —  Bertram  read, 

And  tore  it  fiercely  shred  by  shred  :  — 

'  All  lies  and  villany  !  to  blind 

His  noble  kinsman's  generous  mind, 

And  train  him  on  from  day  to  day, 

Till  he  can  take  his  life  away.  — 

And  now,  declare  thy  purpose,  youth, 

Nor  dare  to  answer,  save  the  truth ; 

If  aught  I  mark  of  Denzil's  art, 

I'll  tear  the  secret  from  thy  heart ! '  — 

XVIII. 

\  It  needs  not.     I  renounce,'  he  said, 
1  My  tutor  and  his  deadly  trade. 
Fixed  was  my  purpose  to  declare 
To  Mortham,  Redmond  is  his  heir; 
To  tell  him  in  what  risk  he  stands. 
And  yield  these  tokens  to  his  hands. 
Fixed  was  my  purpose  to  atone, 
Far  as  I  may,  the  evil  done ; 


328 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL   WORKS. 


And  fixed  it  rests  —  if  I  survive 

This  night,  and  leave  this  cave  alive.'  — 

1  And  Denzil  ? '  — '  Let  them  ply  the  rack. 

Even  till  his  joints  and  sinews  crack  ! 

If  Oswald  tear  him  limb  from  limb, 

What  ruth  can  Denzil  claim  from  him 

Whose  thoughtless  youth  he  led  astray 

And  damned  to  this  unhallowed  way? 

He  schooled  me, faith  and  vows  were  vain; 

Now  let  my  master  reap  his  gain.'  — 

'  True,'  answered  Bertram,  '  't  is  his  meed  ; 

There  's  retribution  in  the  deed. 

But  thou  —  thou  art  not  for  our  course, 

Hast  fear,  hast  pity,  hast  remorse  ; 

And  he  with  us  the  gale  who  braves 

Must  heave  such  cargo  to  the  waves, 

Or  lag  with  overloaded  prore 

While  barks  unburdened  reach  the  shore.' 

XIX. 

He  paused  and,  stretching  him  at  length, 
Seemed  to  repose  his  bulky  strength. 
Communing  with  his  secret  mind, 
As  half  he  sat  and  half  reclined, 
One  ample  hand  his  forehead  pressed, 
And  one  was  dropped  across  his  breast. 
The  shaggy  eyebrows  deeper  came 
Above  his  eyes  of  swarthy  flame  ; 
His  lip  of  pride  awhile  forbore 
The  haughty  curve  till  then  it  wore ; 
The  unaltered  fierceness  of  his  look 
A  shade  of  darkened  sadness  took,  — 
For  dark  and  sad  a  presage  pressed 
Resistlessly  on  Bertram's  breast,  — 
And  when  he  spoke,  his  wonted  tone, 
So  fierce,  abrupt,  and  brief,  was  gone. 
His  voice  was  steady,  low,  and  deep, 
Like  distant  waves  when  breezes  sleep  ; 
And  sorrow  mixed  with  Edmund's  fear, 
Its  low  unbroken  depth  to  hear. 


XX. 

'  Edmund,  in  thy  sad  tale  I  find 
The  woe  that  warped  my  patron's  mind 
'T  would  wake  the  fountains  of  the  eye 
In  other  men,  but  mine  are  dry. 
Mortham  must  never  see  the  tool 
That  sold  himself  base  Wycliffe's  tool, 
Yet  less  from  thirst  of  sordid  gain 
Than  to  avenge  supposed  disdain. 
Say  Bertram  rues  his  fault  —  a  word 
Till  now  from  Bertram  never  heard  : 
Say,  too,  that  Morthanvs  lord  he  prays 
To  think  but  on  their  former  days  ; 
On  Quarianna's  beach  and  rock, 
On  Cayo's  bursting  battle-shock, 
On  Darien's  sands  and  deadly  dew, 
And  on  the  dart  Tlatzeca  threw ;  — 
Perchance  my  patron  yet  may  hear 


More  that  may  grace  his  comrade's  bier. 

My  soul  hath  felt  a  secret  weight, 

A  warning  of  approaching  fate  : 

A  priest  had  said,  "  Return,  repent !  " 

As  well  to  bid  that  rock  be  rent. 

Firm  as  that  flint  I  face  mine  end ; 

My  heart  may  burst  but  cannot  bend. 

XXI. 

'  The  dawning  of  my  youth  with  awe 

And  prophecy  the  Dalesmen  saw  ; 

For  over  Redesdale  it  came, 

As  bodeful  as  their  beacon-flame. 

Edmund,  thy  years  were  scarcely  mine 

When,  challenging  the  Clans  of  Tyne 

To  bring  their  best  my  brand  to  prove. 

O'er  Hexham's  altar  hung  my  glove : 

But  Tynedale,  nor  in  tower  nor  town, 

Held  champion  meet  to  take  it  down. 

My  noontide  India  may  declare  ; 

Like  her  fierce  sun,  I  fired  the  air  ! 

Like  him,  to  wood  and  cave  bade  fly 

Her  natives  from  mine  angry  eye. 

Panama's  maids  shall  long  look  pale 

When  Risingham  inspires  the  tale  ; 

Chili's  dark  matrons  long  shall  tame  • 

The  froward  child  with  Bertram's  name. 

And  now,  my  race  of  terror  run, 

Mine  be  the  eve  of  tropic  sun  ! 

No  pale  gradations  quench  his  ray. 

No  twilight  dews  his  wrath  allay  : 

With  disk  like  battle-target  red 

He  rushes  to  his  burning  bed, 

Dyes  the  wide  wave  with  bloody  light, 

Then  sinks  at  once  — and  all  is  nisrht.  — 


XXII. 


'  Now  to  thy  mission,  Edmund.     Fly, 
Seek  Mortham  out,  and  bid  him  hie 
To  Richmond  where  his  troops  are  laid, 
And  lead  his  force  to  Redmond's  aid. 
Say  till  he  reaches  Eglistone 
A  friend  will  watch  to  guard  his  son. 
Now,  fare-thee-well ;  for  night  draws  on, 
Arid  I  would  rest  me  here  alone.' 
Despite  his  ill-dissembled  fear, 
There  swam  in  Edmund's  eye  a  tear  : 
A  tribute  to  the  courage  high 
Which  stooped  not  in  extremity, 
But  strove,  irregularly  great, 
To  triumph  o'er  approaching  fate  ! 
Bertram  beheld  the  dewdrop  start, 
It  almost  touched  his  iron  heart  : 
'  I  did  not  think  there  lived,'  he  said, 
'  One  who  would  tear  for  Bertram  shed.' 
He  loosened  then  his  baldric's  hold, 
A  buckle  broad  of  massive  gold;  — 
1  Of  all  the  spoil  that  paid  his  pains 
But  this  with  Risingham  remains  ; 


ROKEBY. 


329 


And  this,  dear  Edmund,  thou  shalt  take. 
And  wear  it  long  for  Bertram's  sake. 
Once  more  —  to  Mortham  speed  amain  ; 
Farewell !  and  turn  thee  not  again.' 


XXIII. 


The  night  has  yielded  to  the  morn, 
And  far  the  hours  of  prime  are  worn. 
Oswald,  who  since  the  dawn  of  day 
Had  cursed  his  messenger's  delay, 
Impatient  questioned  now  his  train, 


'  Alas,  my  lord  !  full  ill  to-day 

May  my  young  master  brook  the  way  ! 

The  leech  has  spoke  with- grave  alarm 

Of  unseen  hurt,  of  secret  harm, 

Of  sorrow  lurking  at  the  heart, 

That  mars  and  lets  his  healing  art.' 

'  Tush  !  tell  not  me  !  —  Romantic  boys 

Pine  themselves  sick  for  airy  toys, 

I  will  find  cure  for  Wilfrid  soon ; 

Bid  him  for  Eglistone  be  boune, 

And  quick  !  —  I  hear  the  dull  death-drum 


'  Was  Denzil's  son  returned  again  ?  ' 

It  chanced  there  answered  of  the  crew 

A  menial  who  young  Edmund  knew : 

4  No  son  of  Denzil  this,'  he  said  ; 

4  A  peasant  boy  from  Winston  glade, 

For  song  and  minstrelsy  renowned 

And  knavish  pranks  the  hamlets  round.' 

'  Not  Denzil's  son  !  —  from  Winston  vale  !  — 

Then  it  was  false,  that  specious  tale  ; 

Or  worse  —  he  hath  despatched  the  youth 

To  show  to  Mortham 's  lord  its  truth. 

Fool  that  I  was  !  —  but  't  is  too  late  ;  — 

This  is  the  very  turn  of  fate  !  — 

The  tale,  or  true  or  false,  relies 

On  Denzil's  evidence  !  —  He  dies  !  — 

Ho  !  Provost  Marshal !  instantly 

Lead  Denzil  to  the  gallows-tree  ! 

Allow  him  not  a  parting  word ; 

Short  be  the  shrift  and  sure  the  cord ! 

Then  let  his  gory  head  appall 

Marauders  from  the  castle-wall. 

Lead  forth  thy  guard,  that  duty  done, 

With  best  despatch  to  Eglistone.  — 

Basil,  tell  Wilfrid  he  must  straight 

Attend  me  at  the  castle-gate.' 

xxiv. 

'  Alas  ! '  the  old  domestic  said, 
And  shook  his  venerable  head. 


Tell  Denzil's  hour  of  fate  is  come.' 
He  paused  with  scornful  smile,  and  then 
Resumed  his  train  of  thought  agen. 
1  Now  comes  my  fortune's  crisis  near  ! 
Entreaty  boots  not  —  instant  fear, 
Naught  else,  can  bend  Matilda's  pride 
Or  win  her  to  be  Wilfrid's  bride. 
But  when  she  sees  the  scaffold  placed, 
With  axe  and  block  and  headsman  graced, 
And  when  she  deems  that  to  deny 
Dooms  Redmond  and  her  sire  to  die, 
She  must  give  way.  —  Then,  were  the  line 
Of  Rokeby  once  combined  with  mine, 
I  gain  the  weather-gage  of  fate  ! 
If  Mortham  come,  he  comes  too  late, 
While  I,  allied  thus  and  prepared, 
Bid  him  defiance  to  his  beard.  — 
If  she  prove  stubborn,  shall  I  dare 
To  drop  the  axe  ?  —  Soft !  pause  we  there. 
Mortham  still  lives  —  yon  youth  may  tell 
His  tale  —  and  Fairfax  loves  him  well ;  — 
Else,  wherefore  should  I  now  delay 
To  sweep  this  Redmond  from  my  way  ?  — 
But  she  to  piety  perforce 
Must  yield.  —  Without  there  !     Sound  to 
horse  ! ' 

xxv : 

'T  was  bustle  in  the  court  below,  — 

'  Mount,  and  march  forward ! '  Forth  they  go ; 


330 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL   WORKS. 


Steeds  neigh  and  trample  all  around, 
Steel    rings,    spears    glimmer,    trumpets 

sound.  — 
Just  then  was  sung  his  parting  hymn  ; 
And  Denzil  turned  his  eyeballs  dim, 
And,  scarcely  conscious  what  he  sees, 
Follows  the  horsemen  down  the  Tees  ; 
And  scarcely  conscious  what  he  hears, 
The  trumpets  tingle  in  his  ears. 
O'er  the  long  bridge  they  're  sweeping  now, 
The  van  is  hid  by  greenwood  bough  : 
But  ere  the  rearward  had  passed  o'er 
Guy  Denzil  heard  and  saw  no  more  ! 
One  stroke,  upon  the  castle  bell 
To  Oswald  rung  his  dying  knell. 


O,  for  that  pencil,  erst  profuse 
Of  chivalry's  emblazoned  hues, 
That  traced  of  old  in  Woodstock  bower 
The  pageant  of  the  Leaf  and  Flower, 
And  bodied  forth  the  tourney  high 
Held  for  the  hand  of  Emily  ! 
Then  might  I  paint  the  tumult  broad 
That  to  the  crowded  abbey  flowed, 
And  poured,  as  with  an  ocean's  sound, 
Into  the  church's  ample  bound! 
Then  might  I  show  each  varying  mien, 
Exulting,  woful,  or  serene  ; 
Indifference,  with  his  idiot  stare, 
And  Sympathy,  with  anxious  air ; 
Paint  the  dejected  Cavalier, 
Doubtful,  disarmed,  and  sad  of  cheer ; 
And  his  proud  foe,  whose  formal  eye 
Claimed  conquest  now  and  mastery ; 
And  the  brute  crowd,  whose  envious  zeal 
Huzzas  each  turn  of  Fortune's  wheel, 
And  loudest  shouts  when  lowest  lie 
Exalted  worth  and  station  high. 
Yet  what  may  such  a  wish  avail  ? 
'T  is  mine  to  tell  an  onward  tale, 
Hurrying,  as  best  I  can,  along 
The  hearers  and  the  hasty  song ;  — 
Like  traveller  when  approaching  home, 
Who  sees  the  shades  of  evening  come, 
And  must  not  now  his  course  delay, 
Or  choose  the  fair  but  winding  way  ; 
Nay,  scarcely  may  his  pace  suspend, 
Where  o'er  his  head  the  wildings  bend, 
To  bless  the  breeze  that  cools  his  brow 
Or  snatch  a  blossom  from  the  bough. 

XXVII. 

The  reverend  pile  lay  wild  and  waste, 
Profaned,  dishonored,  and  defaced. 
Through  storied  lattices  no  more 
In  softened  light  the  sunbeams  pour, 
Gilding  the  Gothic  sculpture  rich 
Of  shrine  and  monument  and  niche. 


The  civil  fury  of  the  time 

Made  sport  of  sacrilegious  crime  ; 

For  dark  fanaticism  rent 

Altar  and  screen  and  ornament, 

And  peasant  hands  the  tombs  o'erthrew 

Of  Bowes,  of  Rokeby,  and  Fitz-Hugh. 

And  now  was  seen,  unwonted  sight, 

In  holy  walls  a  scaffold  dight ! 

Where  once  the  priest  of  grace  divine 

Dealt  to  his  flock  the  mystic  sign, 

There  stood  the  block  displayed,  and  there 

The  headsman  grim  his  hatchet  bare, 

And  for  the  word  of  hope  and  faith 

Resounded  loud  a  doom  of  death. 

Thrice    the   fierce    trumpet's   breath   was 

heard, 
And  echoed  thrice  the  herald's  word, 
Dooming,  for  breach  of  martial  laws 
And  treason  to  the  Commons'  cause, 
The  Knight  of  Rokeby,  and  O'Neale, 
To  stoop  their  heads  to  block  and  steel. 
The  trumpets  flourished  high  and  shrill, 
Then  was  a  silence  dead  and  still ; 
And  silent  prayers  to  Heaven  were  cast. 
And  stifled  sobs  were  bursting  fast, 
Till  from  the  crowd  begun  to  rise 
Murmurs  of  sorrow  or  surprise, 
And  from  the  distant  isles  there  came 
Deep-muttered     threats     with     Wycliffe's 

name. 


XXVIII. 

But  Oswald,  guarded  by  his  band. 

Powerful  in  evil,  waved'  his  hand. 

And  bade  sedition's  voice  be  dead, 

On  peril  of  the  murmurer's  head. 

Then  first    his   glance    sought    Rokeby's 

Knight, 
Who  gazed  on  the  tremendous  sight 
As  calm  as  if  he  came  a  guest 
To  kindred  baron's  feudal  feast, 
As  calm  as  if  that  trumpet-call 
Were  summons  to  the  bannered  hall ; 
Firm  in  his  loyalty  he  stood, 
And  prompt  to  seal  it  with  his  blood. 
With  downcast  look  drew  Oswald  nigh,  — 
He  durst  not  cope  with  Rokeby's  eye  !  — 
And  said  with  low  and  faltering  breath, 
'Thou    know'st    the    terms    of  life     and 

death.' 
The  knight  then  turned  and  sternly  smiled  : 
1  The  maiden  is  mine  only  child, 
Yet  shall  my  blessing  leave  her  head 
If  with  a  traitor's  son  she  wed.' 
Then  Redmond  spoke  :  '  The  life  of  one 
Might  thy  malignity  atone, 
On  me  be  flung  a  double  guilt ! 
Spare  Rokeby's  blood,  let  mine  be  spilt ! ' 
Wycliffe  had  listened  to  his  suit, 
But  dread  prevailed  and  he  was  mute. 


ROKEBY. 


331 


XXIX. 

And  now  he  pours  his  choice  of  fear 
In  secret  on  Matilda's  ear; 
1  An  union  formed  with  me  and  mine 
Ensures  the  faith  of  Rokeby's  line. 
Consent,  and  all  this  dread  array 
Like  morning  dream  shall  pass  away : 
Refuse,  and  by  my  duty  pressed 
I  give  the  word  —  thou  know'st  the  rest.' 
Matilda,  still  and  motionless, 
With  terror  heard  the  dread  address, 
Pale  as  the  sheeted  maid  who  dies 
To  hopeless  love  a  sacrifice  ; 
Then  wrung  her  hands  in  agony, 
And  round  her  cast  bewildered  eye, 
Now  on  the  scaffold  glanced,  and  now 
On  Wycliffe's  unrelenting  brow. 
She  veiled  her  face,  and  with  a  voice 
Scarce  audible,  '  I  make  my  choice  ! 
Spare  but  their  lives  !  —  for  aught  beside 
Let  Wilfrid's  doom  my  fate  decide. 
He  once  was  generous  ! '     As  she  spoke, 
Dark  Wycliffe's  joy  in  triumph  broke  : 
'  Wilfrid,  where  loitered  ye  so  late  ? 
Why  upon  Basil  rest  thy  weight  ?  — 
Art  spell-bound  by  enchanter's  wand  ?  — 
Kneel,  kneel,  and  take  her  yielded  hand  ; 
Thank  her  with  raptures,  simple  boy  ! 
Should  tears  and  trembling  speak  thy  joy  ? 
'  O  hush,  my  sire  !  To  prayer  and  tear 
Of  mine  thou  hast  refused  thine  ear ; 
But  now  the  awful  hour  draws  on 
When  truth  must  speak  in  loftier  tone.' 


XXX. 

He  took  Matilda's  hand :  '  Dear  maid, 

Couldst  thou  so  injure  me,'  he  said, 

'  Of  thy  poor  friend  so  basely  deem 

As  blend  with  him  this  barbarous  scheme  ? 

Alas  !  my  efforts  made  in  vain 

Might  well  have  saved  this  added  pain. 

But  now,  bear  witness  earth  and  heaven 

That  ne'er  was  hope  to  mortal  given 

So  twisted  with  the  strings  of  life 

As  this  —  to  call  Matilda  wife  ! 

I  bid  it  now  forever  part, 

And  with  the  effort  bursts  my  heart.' 

His  feeble  frame  was  worn  so  low, 

With  wounds,  with  watching,  and  with  woe 

That  nature  could  no  more  sustain 

The  agony  of  mental  pain. 

He  kneeled  —  his  lip  her  hand  had  pressed, 

Just  then  he  felt  the  stern  arrest. 

Lower  and  lower  sunk  his  head,  — 

They  raised  him,  —  but  the  life  was  fled ! 

Then  first  alarmed  his  sire  and  train 

Tried  every  aid,  but  tried  in  vain. 

The  soul,  too  soft  its  ills  to  bear, 

Had  left  our  mortal  hemisphere, 


And  sought  in  better  world  the  meed 
To  blameless  life  by  Heaven  decreed. 


The  wretched  sire  beheld  aghast 

With  Wilfrid  all  his  projects  past, 

All  turned  and  centred  on  his  son, 

On  Wilfrid  all  —  and  he  was  gone. 

'  And  I  am  childless  now,'  he  said ; 

1  Childless,  through  that  relentless  maid  ! 

A  lifetime's  arts  in  vain  essayed 

Are  bursting  on  their  artist's  head.! 

Here  lies  my  Wilfrid  dead  —  and  there 

Comes  hated  Mortham  for  his  heir, 

Eager  to  knit  in  happy  band 

With  Rokeby's  heiress  Redmond's  hand. 

And  shall  their  triumph  soar  o'er  all 

The  schemes  deep-laid  to  work  their  fall  ? 

No  !  —  deeds  which   prudence   might  not 

dare 
Appall  not  vengeance  and  despair. 
The  murderess  weeps  upon  his  bier  — 
I  '11  change  to  real  that  feigned  tear ! 
They  all  shall  share  destruction's  shock  ;  — 
Ho  !  lead  the  captives  to  the  block  ! ' 
But  ill  his  provost  could  divine 
His  feelings,  and  forbore  the  sign. 
'  Slave !  to  the  block  !  —  or  I  or  they 
Shall  face  the  judgment-seat  this  day ! ' 

XXXII. 

The  outmost  crowd  have  heard  a  sound 
Like  horse's  hoof  on  hardened  ground ; 
Nearer  it  came,  and  yet  more  near,  — 
The  very  death's-men  paused  to  hear. 
'Tis  in  the  churchyard  now  —  the  tread 
Hath  waked  the  dwelling  of  the  dead  ! 
Fresh  sod  and  old  sepulchral  stone 
Return  the  tramp  in  varied  tone. 
All  eyes  upon  the  gateway  hung, 
When  through  the  Gothic  arch  there  sprung 
A  horseman  armed  at  headlong  speed  — 
Sable  his  cloak,  his  plume,  his  steed. 
Fire  from  the  flinty  floor  was  spurned, 
The  vaults  unwonted  clang  returned !  — 
One  instant's  glance  around  he  threw, 
From  saddlebow  his  pistol  drew. 
Grimly  determined  was  his  look  ! 
His  charger  with  the  spurs  he  strook  — 
All  scattered  backward  as  he  came, 
For  all  knew  Bertram  Risingham  ! 
Three  bounds  that  noble  courser  gave  ; 
The  first  has  reached  the  central  nave, 
The  second  cleared  the  chancel  wide, 
The  third  — he  was  at  Wycliffe's  side. 
Full  levelled  at  the  baron's  head, 
Rung  the  report  —  the  bullet  sped  — 
And  to  his  long  account  and  last 
Without  a  groan  dark  Oswald  past ! 


332 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL    WORKS. 


All  was  so  quick  that  it  might  seem 
A  flash  of  lightning  or  a  dream. 

XXXIII. 

While  yet  the  smoke  the  deed  conceals, 
Bertram  his  ready  charger  wheels; 
But  floundered  on  the  pavement-floor 
The  steed  and  down  the  rider  bore, 


'Gainst  hacking  brands  and  st   .,bing  spears. 
Thrice  from  assailants  shook  him  free, 
Once  gained  his  feet  and  twice  his  knee. 
By  tenfold  odds  oppressed  at  length, 
Despite  his  struggles  and  his  strength, 
He  took  a  hundred  mortal  wounds 
As  niute  as  fox  'mongst  mangling  hounds  :. 
And  when  he  died  his  parting  groan 


And,  bursting  in  the  headlong  sway, 
The  faithless  saddle-girths  gave  way. 
'T  was  while  he  toiled  him  to  be  freed, 
And  with  the  rein  to  raise  the  steed, 
That  from  amazement's  iron  trance 
All  Wycliffe's  soldiers  waked  at  once. 
Sword,  halberd,  musket-butt,  their  blows 
Hailed  upon  Bertram  as  he  rose  ; 
A  score  of  pikes  with  each  a  wound 
Bore  down  and  pinned  him  to  the  ground  ; 
Hut  still  his  struggling  force  he  rears, 


Had  more  of  laughter  than  of  moan  ! 
They  gazed  as  when  a  lion  dies, 
And  hunters  scarcely  trust  their  eyes, 
But  bend  their  weapons  on  the  slain 
Lest  the  grim  king  should  rouse  again  ! 
Then  blow  and  insult  some  renewed, 
And  from  the  trunk  the  head  had  hewed. 
But  Basil's  voice  the  deed  forbade  ; 
A  mantle  o'er  the  corse  he  laid  :  — 
1  Fell  as  he  was  in  act  and  mind, 
He  left  no  bolder  heart  behind  : 


ROKEBY. 


333 


Then  givv&im,  for  a  soldier  meet, 
A  soldier's  cloak  for  winding  sheet.' 


xxxiv. 

No  more  of  death  and  dying  pang, 
No  more  of  trump  and  bugle  clang, 
Though  through  the  sounding  woods  there 

come 
Banner  and  bugle,  trump  and  drum. 
Armed  with  such  powers  as  well  had  freed 
Young  Redmond  at  his  utmost  need, 
And  backed  with  such  a  band  of  horse 
As  might  less  ample  powers  enforce, 
Possessed  of  every  proof  and  sign 
That  gave  an  heir  to  Mortham's  line, 
And  yielded  to  a  father's  arms 
An  image  of  his  Edith's  charms,  — 
Mortham  is  come,  to  hear  and  see 
Of  this  strange  morn  the  history. 
What  saw'he?  —  not  the  church's  floor, 
Cumbered  with  dead  and  stained  with  gore  ; 
What  heard  he  ? — not  the  clamorous  crowd, 
That  shout  their  gratulations  loud  : 
Redmond  he  saw  and  heard  alone, 
Clasped  him   and   sobbed,  'My  son  !    my 

son! ' 


XXXV. 

This  chanced  upon  a  summer  morn, 
When  yellow  waved  the  heavy  corn : 
But  when  brown  August  o'er  the  land 
Called  forth  the  reaper's  busy  band, 
A  gladsome  sight  the  sylvan  road 
From  Eglistone  to  Mortham  showed. 
Awhile  the  hardy  rustic  leaves 
The  task  to  bind  and  pile  the  sheaves, 
And  maids  their  sickles  fling  aside 
To  gaze  on  bridegroom  and  on  bride, 
And  childhood's  wondering  group  draws 

near, 
And  from  the  gleaner's  hands  the  ear 
Drops  while  she  folds  them  for  a  prayer 
And  blessing  on  the  lovely  pair. 
'T  was  then  the  Maid  of  Rokeby  gave 
Her  plighted  troth  to  Redmond  brave  ; 
And  Teesdale  can  remember  yet 
How  Fate  to  Virtue  paid  her  debt, 
And  for  their  troubles  bade  them  prove 
A  lengthened  life  of  peace  and  love. 

Time  and  Tide  had  thus  their  sway, 
Yielding,  like  an  April  day, 
Smiling  noon  for  sullen  morrow, 
Years  of  joy  for  hours  of  sorrow  ! 


%tyt  Ertoal  of  Crtcrmam 

OR, 

THE  VALE   OF   SAINT  JOHN. 
A   LOVER'S  TALE. 


E\}t  Brfoal  of  Crietmam. 


INTRODUCTION. 


Come,  Lucy  !  while  't  is  morning  hour 

The  woodland  brook  we  needs  must  pass 
So  ere  the  sun  assume  his  power 
We  shelter  in  our  poplar  bower, 
Where  dew  lies  long  upon  the  flower, 

Though  vanished  from  the  velvet  grass. 
Curbing  the  stream,  this  stony  ridge 
May  serve  us  for  a  sylvan  bridge  ; 

For  here  compelled  to  disunite, 

Round  petty  isles  the  runnels  glide, 
And  chafing  off  their  puny  spite, 
The  shallow  murmurers  waste  their  might. 

Yielding  to  footstep  free  and  light 
A  dry-shod  pass  from  side  to  side. 

II. 

Nay,  why  this  hesitating  pause  ? 
And,  Lucy,  as  thy  step  withdraws, 


Why  sidelong  eye  the  streamlet's  brim  ? 

Titania's  foot  without  a  slip, 
Like  thine,  though  timid,  light,  and  slim, 

From  stone  to  stone  might  safely  trip, 

Nor  risk  the  glow-worm  clasp  to  dip 
That  binds  her  slipper's  silken  rim. 
Or  trust  thy  lover's  strength ;  nor  fear 

That  this  same  stalwart  arm  of  mine, 
Which  could  yon  oak's  prone  trunk  uprear. 
Shall  shrink  beneath  the  burden  dear 

Of  form  so  slender,  light,  and  fine.  — 
So  —  now,  the  danger  dared  at  last, 
Look  back  and  smile  at  perils  past ! 

in. 
And  now  we  reach  the  favorite  glade, 

Paled  in  by  copsewood,  cliff,  and  stone, 
Where  never  harsher  sounds  invade 

To  break  affection's  whispering  tone 
Than  the  deep  breeze  that  waves  the  shade. 

Than  the  small  brooklet's  feeble  moan. 
Come  !  rest  thee  on  thy  wonted  seat ; 

Mossed  is  the  stone,  the  turf  is  green, 
A  place  where  lovers  best  may  meet 

Who  would  not  that  their  love  be  seen. 


3& 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL   WORKS. 


The  boughs  that  dim  the  summer  sky 
Shall  hide  us  from  each  lurking  spy 

That  fain  would  spread  the  invidious  tale, 
How  Lucy  of  the  lofty  eye, 
Noble  in  birth,  in  fortunes  high, 
She  for  whom  lords  and  barons  sigh, 

Meets  her  poor  Arthur  in  the  dale. 


IV. 

How  deep  that  blush  !  —  how  deep  that  sigh  ! 
And  why  does  Lucy  shun  mine  eye  ? 
Is  it  because  that  crimson  draws 
Its  color  from  some  secret  cause, 
Some  hidden  movement  of  the  breast, 
She  would  not  that  her  Arthur  guessed  ? 
O,  quicker  far  is  lovers'  ken 
Than  the  dull  glance  of  common  men, 
And  by  strange  sympathy  can  spell 
The  thoughts  the  loved  one  will  not  tell! 
And  mine  in  Lucy's  blush  saw  met 
The  hue  of  pleasure  and  regret ; 
•  Pride  mingled  in  the  sigh  her  voice, 

And  shared  with  Love  the  crimson  glow, 
Well  pleased  that  thou  art  Arthur's  choice, 
Yet  shamed  thine  own  is  placed  so  low  : 
Thou  turn'st  thy  self-confessing  cheek, 

As  if  to  meet  the  breezes  cooling ; 
Then,  Lucy,  hear  thy  tutor  speak, 

For  Love  too  has  his  hours  of  school- 
ing. 

v. 

Too  oft  my  anxious  eye  has  spied 
That  secret  grief  thou  fain  wouldst  hide, 
The  passing  pang  of  humbled  pride  ; 
Too  oft  when  through  the  splendid  hall, 

The  loadstar  of  each  heart  and  eye, 
My  fair  one  leads  the  glittering  ball. 
Will  her  stolen  glance  on  Arthur  fall 

With  such  a  blush  and  such  a  sigh  ! 
Thou  wouldst  not  yield  for  wealth  or  rank 

The  heart  thy  worth  and  beauty  won, 
Nor  leave  me  on  this  mossy  bank 

To  meet  a  rival  on  a  throne : 
Why  then  should  vain  repinings  rise, 
That  to  thy  lover  fate  denies 
A  nobler  name,  a  wide  domain, 
A  baron's  birth,  a  menial  train, 


Since  Heaven  assigned  him  for  his  part 
A  lyre,  a  falchion,  and  a  heart  ? 


My  sword  —  its  master  must  be  dumb ; 
But  when  a  soldier  names  my  name, 

Approach,  my  Lucy  !  fearless  come, 
Nor  dread  to  hear  of  Arthur's  shame. 

My  heart  —  mid  all  yon  courtly  crew 
Of  lordly  rank  and  lofty  line, 

Is  there  to  love  and  honor  true, 
That  boasts  a  pulse  so  warm  as  mine  ? 
They  praised  thy  diamonds'  lustre  rare  — 

Matched  with  thine  eyes,  I  thought  it  faded; 
They  praised  the  pearls  that  bound  thy  hair — 

I  only  saw  the  locks  they  braided; 
They  talked  of  wealthy  dower  and  land, 

And  titles  of  high  birth  the  token  — 
I  thought  of  Lucy's  heart  and  hand, 

Nor  knew  the  sense  of  what  was  spoken. 
And  yet,  if  ranked  in  Fortune's  roll, 

I  might  have  learned  their  choice  unwise 
Who  rate  the  dower  above  the  soul 

And  Lucy's  diamonds  o'er  her  eyes. 

VII. 

My  lyre  —  it  is  an  idle  toy 

That  borrows  accents  not  its  own, 
Like  warbler  of  Colombian  sky 

That  sings  but  in  a  mimic  tone. 
Ne'er  did  it  sound  o'er  sainted  well, 
Nor  boasts  it  aught  of  Border  spell ; 
Its  strings  no  feudal  slogan  pour, 
Its  heroes  draw  no  broad  claymore  ; 
No  shouting  clans  applauses  raise 
Because  it  sung  their  fathers'  praise ; 
On  Scottish  moor,  or  English  down, 
It  ne'er  was  graced  with  fair  renown  ; 
Nor  won  — best  meed  to  minstrel  true  — 
One  favoring  smile  from  fair  Buccleuch  ! 
By  one  poor  streamlet  sounds  its  tone, 
And  heard  by  one  dear  maid  alone. 

VIII. 

But,  if  thou  bid'st,  these  tones  shall  tell 
Of  errant  knight,  and  damoselle  ; 
Of  the  dread  knot  a  wizard  tied 
In  punishment  of  maiden's  pride, 
In  notes  of  marvel  and  of  fear 
That  best  may  charm  romantic  ear. 


For  Lucy  loves  —  like  Collins,  ill-starred  name  ! 
Whose  lay's  requital  was  that  tardy  Fame, 
Who  bound  no  laurel  round  his  living  head, 
Should  hang  it  o'er  his  monument  when  dead,  — 
For  Lucy  loves  to  tread  enchanted  strand, 
And  thread  like  him  the  maze  of  Fairy-land  • 
Of  golden  battlements  to  view  the  gleam, 
And  slumber  soft  by^ome  Elysian  stream  ; 
Such  lays  she  loves  —  and,  such  my  Lucy's  choice 
What  other  song  can  claim  her  Poet's  voice  5 


THE  BRIDAL    OF   TRIERMAIN. 


339 


5Efje  SSrttial  of  BTriermam. 

CANTO   FIRST. 


Where  is  the  maiden  of  mortal  strain 
That  may  match  with  the  Baron  of  Trier- 
main  ? 
She  must  be  lovely  and  constant  and  kind. 
Holy  and  pure  and  humble  of  mind, 
Blithe  of  cheer  and  gentle  of  mood, 
Courteous    and    generous    and    noble    of 

blood  — 
Lovely  as  the  sun's  first  ray 
When  it  breaks  the  clouds  of  an  April  day ; 
Constant  and  true  as  the  widowed  dove, 
Kind  as  a  minstrel  that  sings  of  love  ; 
Pure  as  the  fountain  in  rocky  cave 
Where  never  sunbeam  kissed  the  wave ; 
Humble  as  maiden  that  loves  in  vain, 
Holy  as  hermit's  vesper  strain ; 
Gentle  as  breeze  that  but  whispers  and  dies, 
Yet  blithe  as  the  light  leaves  that  dance  in 

its  sighs  ; 
Courteous   as    monarch    the   morn    he   is 

crowned, 
Generous   as    spring-dews   that   bless   the 

glad  ground  ; 
Noble  her  blood  as  the  currents  that  met 
In  the  veins  of  the  noblest  Plantagenet  — 
Such  must  her  form  be,  her  mood,  and  her 

strain, 
That  shall  match  with  Sir  Roland  of  Trier- 


Sir  Roland  de  Vaux  he  hath  laid  him  to 

sleep, 
His  blood   it  was   fevered,  his   breathing 

was  deep. 
He  had  been  pricking  against  the  Scot, 
The  foray  was  long  and  the  skirmish  hot; 
His  dinted  helm  and  his  buckler's  plight 
Bore  token  of  a  stubborn  fight. 

All  in  the  castle  must  hold  them  still, 
Harpers  must  lull  him  to  his  rest 
With  the  slow  soft  tunes  he  loves  the  best 
Till  sleep  sink  down  upon  his  breast, 

Like  the  dew  on  a  summer  hill. 


in. 

It  was  the  dawn  of  an  autumn  day ; 
The  sun  was  struggling  with  frost-fog  gray 
That  like  a  silvery  crape  was  spread 
Round  Skiddaw's  dim  and  distant  head, 
And  faintly  gleamed  each  painted  pane 
Of  the  lordly  halls  of  Triermain, 

When  that  baron  bold  awoke. 
Starting  he  woke  and  loudly  did  call, 
Rousing  his  menials  in  bower  and  hall 

While  hastily  he  spoke. 


'  Hearken,  my  minstrels  !     Which  of  ye  all 
Touched  his  harp  with  that  dying  fall, 

So  sweet,  so  soft,  so  faint, 
It  seemed  an  angel's  whispered  call 

To  an  expiring  saint  ? 


340 


scorrs  poetical  works. 


And  hearken,  my  merry-men  !     What  time 

or  where 
Did  she  pass,  that  maid  with  her  heavenly 

brow, 
With  her  look  so  sweet  and  her  eyes  so 

fair, 
And  her  graceful  step  and  her  angel  air, 
And  the  eagle  plume  in  her  dark-brown 

hair, 
That  passed  from  my  bower  e'en  now  ! ' 

v. 

Answered  him  Richard  de  Bretville ;  he 
Was  chief  of  the  baron's  minstrelsy,  — 
4  Silent,  noble  chieftain,  we 

Have  sat  since  midnight  close, 
When  such  lulling  sounds  as  the  brooklet 

sings 
Murmured  from  our  melting  strings, 
And  hushed  you  to  repose. 

Had  a  harp-note  sounded  here. 

It  had  caught  my  watchful  ear, 
Although  it  fell  as  faint  and  shy 
As  bashful  maiden's  half-formed  sigh 

When  she  thinks  her  lover  near.' 
Answered  Philip  of  Fasthwaite  tall : 
He  kept  guard  in  the  outer-hall,  — 
'  Since  at  eve  our  watch  took  post. 
Not  a  foot  has  thy  portal  crossed  ; 

Else  had  I  heard  the  steps,  though  low 
And  light  they  fell  as  when  earth  receives 
In  morn  of  frost  the  withered  leaves 

That  drop  when  no  winds  blow.' 


VI. 

4  Then  come  thou  hither,  Henry,  my  page, 
Whom  I  saved  from  the  sack  of  Hermitage, 
When  that  dark  castle,  tower,  and  spire, 
Rose  to  the  skies  a  pile  of  fire, 

And  reddened  all  the  Nine-stane  Hill, 
And  the  shrieks  of  death,  that  wildly  broke 
Through  devouring  flame  and  smothering 
smoke, 

Made  the  warrior's  heart-blood  chill., 
The  trustiest  thou  of  all  my  train, 
My  fleetest  courser  thou  must  rein, 

And  ride  to  Lyulph's  tower, 
And  from  the  Baron  of  Triermain 

Greet  well  that  sage  of  power. 
He  is  sprung  from  Druid  sires 
And  British  bards  that  tuned  their  lyres 
To  Arthur's  and  Pendragon's  praise, 
And  his  who  sleeps  at  Dunmailraise. 
Gifted  like  his  gifted  race, 
He  the  characters  can  trace 
Graven  deep  in  elder  time 
Upon  Hellvellyn's  cliffs  sublime  ; 
Sign  and  sigil  well  cloth  he  know, 
And  can  bode  of  weal  and  woe. 


Of  kingdoms'  fall  and  fate  of  wars, 

From  mystic  dreams  and  course  of  stars. 

He  shall  tell  if  middle  earth 

To  that  enchanting  shape  gave  birth, 

Or  if  't  was  but  an  airy  thing 

Such  as  fantastic  slumbers  bring, 

Framed  from  the  rainbow's  varying  dyes 

Or  fading  tints  of  western  skies. 

For,  by  the  blessed  rood  I  swear, 

If  that  fair  form  breathe  vital  air. 

No  other  maiden  by  my  side 

Shall  ever  rest  De  Vaux's  bride  ! ' 


VII. 

The  faithful  page  he  mounts  his  steed, 
And  soon  he  crossed  green  Irthing's  mead. 
Dashed  o'er  Kirkoswald's  verdant  plain, 
And  Eden  barred  his  course  in  vain. 
He  passed  red  Penrith's  Table  Round, 
For  feats  of  chivalry  renowned, 
Left    Mayburgh's   mound    and    stones   of 

power, 
By  Druids  raised  in  magic  hour, 
And  traced  the  Eamont's  winding  way 
Till  Ulfo's  lake  beneath  him  lay. 

VIII. 

Onward  he  rode,  the  pathway  still 
Winding  betwixt  the  lake  and  hill : 
Till,  on  the  fragment  of  a  rock 
Struck  from  its  base  by  lightning  shock, 

He  saw  the  hoary  sage  : 
The  silver  moss  and  lichen  twined, 
With  fern  and  deer-hair  checked  and  lined, 

A  cushion  fit  for  age  ; 
And  o'er  him  shook  the  aspen-tree, 
A  restless  rustling  canopy. 
Then  sprung  young  Henry  from  his  selle 

And  greeted  Lyulph  grave, 
And  then  his  master's  tale  did  tell, 

And  then  for  counsel  crave. 
The  man  of  years  mused  long  and  deep, 
Of  time's  lost  treasures  taking  keep, 
And  then,  as  rousing  from  a  sleep, 

His  solemn  answer  gave. 

IX. 

1  That  maid  is  born  of  middle  earth 

And  may  of  man  be  won, 
Though  there  have  glided  since  her  birth 

Five  hundred  years  and  One, 
But  where  's  the  knight  in  all  the  north 
That  dare  the  adventure  follow  forth. 
So  perilous  to  knightly  worth, 

In  the  valley  of  Saint  John  ? 
Listen,  youth,  to  what  I  tell, 
And  bind  it  on  thy  memory  well ; 
Nor  muse  that  I  commence  the  rhyme 
Far' distant  mid  the  wrecks  of  time. 


THE  BRIDAL   OF  TRIERMAIN. 


34 1 


The  mystic  tale  by  bard  and  sage 
Is  handed  down  from  Merlin's  age. 


ILgulpfj's  Cale. 

'  King  Arthur  has  ridden  from  merry  Car 

lisle 
When  Pentecost  was  o'er: 
He  journeyed  like  errant-knight  the  while, 
And  sweetly  the  summer  sun  did  smile 

On  mountain,  moss,  and  moor. 
Above  his  solitary  track 
Rose  Glaramara's  ridgy  back, 
Amid  whose  yawning  gulfs 

the  sun 
Cast  umbered  radiance  red 

and  dun, 
Though     never    sunbeam 

could  discern 
The  surface  of  that  sable 

tarn, 
In  whose  black  mirror  you 

may  spy 
The  stars  while  noontide 

lights  the  sky. 
Thegallantkinghe  skirted 

still 
The  margin  of  that  mightv 

hill; 
Rock  upon   rocks    incum- 
bent hung, 
And    torrents,   down    the 

gullies  flung, 
Joined  the  rude  river  that  brawled  on, 
Recoiling  now  from  crag  and  stone, 
Now  diving  deep  from  human  ken," 
And  raving  down  its  darksome  glen. 
The  monarch  judged  this  desert  wild, 
With  such  romantic  ruin  piled, 
Was  theatre  by  Nature's  hand 
For  feat  of  high  achievement  planned. 

XI. 

*  O,  rather  he  chose,  that  monarch  bold, 

On  venturous  quest  to  ride 
In  plate  and  mail  by  wood  and  wold 
Than,  with  ermine   trapped  and  cloth   of 
gold, 

In  princely  bower  to  bide  ; 
The  bursting  crash  of  a  foeman's  spear, 

As  it  shivered  against  his  mail. 
Was  merrier  music  to  his  ear  * 

Than  courtier's  whispered  tale: 
And  the  clash  of  Caliburn  more  dear, 

When  on  the  hostile  casque  it  rung, 
Than  all  the  lays 
To  the  monarch's  praise 

That  the  harpers  of  Reged  sung. 
He  loved  better  to  rest  bv  wood  or  river 


Than  in  bower  of  his  bride,  Dame  Guen- 

ever, 
For  he  left  that  lady  so  lovely  of  cheer 
To  follow  adventures  of  danger  and  fear ; 
And  the  frank-hearted  monarch  full  little 

did  wot 
That  she  smiled  in  his  absence  on  brave 

Lancelot. 


XII. 

1  He  rode  till  over  down  and  dell 
The  shade  more  broad  and  deeper  fell ; 
And  though  around  the  mountain's  head 
Flowed  streams  of  purple  and  gold  and  red, 


Dark  at  the  base,  unblest  by  beam, 
Frowned  the  black  rocks  and  roared  the 

stream. 
With  toil  the  king  his  way  pursued 
By  lonely  Threlkeld's  waste  and  wood, 
Till  on  his  course  obliquely  shone 
The  narrow  valley  of  Saint  John, 
Down  sloping  to  the  western  sky 
Where  lingering  sunbeams  love  to  lie. 
Right  glad  to  feel  those  beams  again, 
The  king  drew  up  his  charger's  rein  ; 
With  gauntlet  raised  he  screened  his  sight, 
As  dazzled  with  the  level  light, 
And  from  beneath  his  glove  of  mail 
Scanned  at  his  ease  the  lovely  vale, 
While  'gainst  the  sun  his  armor  bright 
Gleamed  ruddy  like  the  beacon's  light. 

XIII. 

1  Paled  in  by  many  a  lofty  hill, 
The  narrow  dale  lay  smooth  and  still. 
And,  down  its  verdant  bosom  led, 
A  winding  brooklet  found  its  bed. 
But  midmost  of  the  vale  a  mound 
Arose  with  airy  turrets  crowned, 
Buttress,  and  rampire's  circling  bound, 


342 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL    WORKS. 


And  mighty  keep  and  tower  ; 
Seemed  some  primeval  giant's  hand 
The  castle's  massive  walls  had  planned, 
A  ponderous  bulwark  to  withstand 

Ambitious  Nimrod's  power. 
Above  the  moated  entrance  slung, 
The  balanced  drawbridge  trembling  hung, 

As  jealous  of  a  foe  ; 
Wicket  of  oak,  as  iron  hard, 
With  iron  studded,  clenched,  and  barred, 
And  pronged  portcullis,  joined  to  guard 

The  gloomy  pass  below. 
But  the  gray  walls  no  banners  crowned, 
Upon  the  watchtower's  airy  round 
No  warder  stood  his  horn  to  sound, 
No  guard  beside  the  bridge  was  found, 
And  where  the  Gothic  gateway  frowned 

Glanced  neither  bill  nor  bow. 

xiv. 

1  Beneath  the  castle's  gloomy  pride, 
In  ample  round  did  Arthur  ride 
Three  times  ;  nor  living  thing  he  spied, 

Nor  heard  a  living  sound, 
Save  that,  awakening  from  her  dream, 
The  owlet  now  began  to  scream 
In  concert  with  the  rushing  stream 

That  washed  the  battled  mound. 
He  lighted  from  his  goodly  steed, 
And  he  left  him  to  graze  on  bank  and  mead  ; 
And  slowly  he  climbed  the  narrow  way 
That  reached  the  entrance  grim  and  gray, 
And  he  stood  the  outward  arch  below, 
And  his  bugle-horn  prepared  to  blow 

In  summons  blithe  and  bold, 
Deeming  to  rouse  from  iron  sleep 
The  guardian  of  this  dismal  keep, 

Which  well  he  guessed  the  hold 
Of  wizard  stern,  or  goblin  grim, 
Or  pagan  of  gigantic  limb, 

The  tyrant  of  the  wold. 


'  The  ivory  bugle's  golden  tip 

Twice  touched  the  monarch's  manly  lip, 

And  twice  his  hand  withdrew.  — 
Think  not  but  Arthur's  heart  was  good  ! 
His   shield   was   crossed   by  the    blessed 

rood  : 
Had  a  pagan  host  before  him  stood, 

He     had    charged    them    through    and 
through ; 
Yet  the  silence  of  that  ancient  place 
Sunk  on  his  heart,  and  he  paused  a  space 

Ere  yet  his  horn  he  blew. 
But,  instant  as  its  larum  rung, 
The  castle  gate  was  open  flung, 
Portcullis  rose  with  crashing  groan 
Full  harshly  up  its  groove  of  stone  ; 


The  balance-beams  obeyed  the  blast, 
And  down  the  trembling  drawbridge  cast : 
The  vaulted  arch  before  him  lay 
With  naught  to  bar  the  gloomy  way, 
And  onward  Arthur  paced  with  hand 
On  Caliburn's  resistless  brand. 


xvi. 

1  A  hundred  torches  flashing  bright 
Dispelled  at  once  the  gloomy  night 

That  loured  along  the  walls, 
And  showed  the  king's  astonished  sight 

The  inmates  of  the  halls. 
Nor  wizard  stern,  nor  goblin  grim, 
Nor  giant  huge  of  form  and  limb, 

Nor  heathen  knight,  was  there ; 
But  the  cressets  which  odors  flung  aloft 
Showed  by  their  yellow  light  and  soft 

A  band  of  damsels  fair. 
Onward  they  came,  like  summer  wave 

That  dances  to  the  shore ; 
An  hundred  voices  welcome  gave, 

And  welcome  o'er  and  o'er ! 
An  hundred  lovely  hands  assail 
The  bucklers  of  the  monarch's  mail, 
And  busy  labored  to  unhasp 
Rivet  of  steel  and  iron  clasp. 
One  wrapped  him  in  a  mantle  fair, 
And  one  flung  odors  on  his  hair ; 
His  I  short   curled   ringlets  one   smoothed 

down, 
One  wreathed  them  with  a  myrtle  crown. 
A  bride  upon  her  wedding-day 
Was  tended  ne'er  by  troop  so  gay. 


XVII. 

'  Loud  laughed  they  all,  —  the  king  in  vain 
With  questions  tasked  the  giddy  train ; 
Let  him  entreat  or  crave  or  call, 
'T  was  one  reply  — loud  laughed  they  all. 
Then  o'er  him  mimic  chains  they  fling 
Framed  of  the  fairest  flowers  of  spring; 
While  some  their  gentle  force  unite 
Onward  to  drag  the  wondering  knight, 
Some  bolder  urge  his  pace  with  blows, 
Dealt  with  the  lily  or  the  rose. 
Behind  him  were  in  triumph  borne 
The  warlike  arms  he  late  had  worn. 
Four  of  the  train  combined  to  rear 
The  terrors  of  Tintadgel's  spear ; 
Two,  laughing  at  their  lack  of  strength, 
Dragged  Caliburn  in  cumbrous  length ; 
One,  while  she  aped  a  martial  stride, 
Placed  on  her  brows  the  helmet's  pride  ; 
Then  screamed  'twixt  laughter  and  surprise 
To  feel  its  depth  o'erwhelm  her  eyes. 
With  revel-shout  and  triumph-song 
Thus  gayly  marched  the  giddy  throng. 


THE  BRIDAL   OF   TRIERMAIiX. 


343 


XVIII. 

•  Through  many  a  gallery  and  hall 
They  led,  I  ween,  their  royal  thrall ; 
At  length,  beneath  a  fair  arcade 

Their  march  and  song  at  once  they  staid. 
The  eldest  maiden  of  the  band  — 

The  lovely  maid  was  scarce  eighteen  — 
Raised  with  imposing  air  her  hand, 
And  reverent  silence  did  command 

On  entrance  of  their  Queen, 
And  they  were  mute.  —  But  as  a  glance 
They  steal  on  Arthur's  countenance 

Bewildered  with  surprise, 
Their  smothered  mirth  again  'gan  speak 
In  archly  dimpled  chin  and  cheek 

And  laughter-lighted  eyes. 

XIX. 

*  The  attributes  of  those  high  days 
Now  only  live  in  minstrel-lays ; 
For  Nature,  now  exhausted,  still 
Was  then  profuse  of  good  and  ill. 
Strength  was  gigantic,  valor  high, 
And  wisdom  soared  beyond  the  sky, 
And  beauty  had  such  matchless  beam 
As  lights  not  now  a  lover's  dream. 
Yet  e'en  in  that  romantic  age 

Ne'er  were  such  charms  by  mortal  seen 
As  Arthur's  dazzled  eyes  engage, 
When  forth  on  that  enchanted  stage 
With  glittering  train  of  maid  and  page 

Advanced  the  castle's  queen  ! 
While  up  the  hall  she  slowly  passed, 
Her  dark  eye  on  the  king  she  cast 

That  flashed  expression  strong ; 
The  longer  dwelt  that  lingering  look, 
Her  cheek  the  livelier  color  took, 
And   scarce   the  shame-faced   king   could 
brook 

The  gaze  that  lasted  long. 
A  sage  who  had  that  look  espied, 
Where  kindling  passion  strove  with  pride, 

Had  whispered,  "  Prince,  beware  ! 
From  the  chafed  tiger  rend  the  prey, 
Rush  on  the  lion  when  at  bay, 
Bar  the  fell  dragon's  blighted  way, 

But  shun  that  lovely  snare  ! " 

XX. 

1  At  once,  that  inward  strife  suppressed, 
The  dame  approached  her  warlike  guest, 
With  greeting  in  that  fair  degree 
Where  female  pride  and  courtesy 
Are  blended  with  such  passing  art 
As  awes  at  once  and  charms  the  heart. 
A  courtly  welcome  first  she  gave, 
Then  of  his  goodness  'gan  to  crave 

Construction  fair  and  true 
Of  her  light  maidens'  idle  mirth, 


Who  drew  from  lonely  glens  their  birth 
Nor  knew  to  pay  to  stranger  worth 

And  dignity  their  due  ; 
And  then  she  prayed  that  he  would  rest 
That  night  her  castle's  honored  guest. 
The  monarch  meetly  thanks  expressed  ; 
The  banquet  rose  at  her  behest, 
With  lay  and  tale,  and  laugh  and  jest, 

Apace  the  evening  flew. 

XXI. 

1  The  lady  sate  the  monarch  by, 
Now  in  her  turn  abashed  and  shy, 
And  with  indifference  seemed  to  hear 
The  toys  he  whispered  in  her  ear. 
Her  bearing  modest  was  and  fair, 
Yet  shadows  of  constraint  were  there 
That  showed  an  over-cautious  care 

Some  inward  thought  to  hide  ; 
Oft  did  she  pause  in  full  reply, 
And  oft  cast  down  her  large  dark  eye, 
Oft  checked  the  soft  voluptuous  sigh 

That  heaved  her  bosom's  pride. 
Slight    symptoms    these,    but    shepherds 

know 
How  hot  the  mid-day  sun  shall  glow 

From  the  mist  of  morning  sky  ; 
And  so  the  wily  monarch  guessed 
That  this  assumed  restraint  expressed 
More  ardent  passions  in  the  breast 

Than  ventured  to  the  eye. 
Closer  he  pressed  while  beakers  rang, 
While  maidens  laughed  and  minstrels  sang. 

Still  closer  to  her  ear  — 
But  why  pursue  the  common  tale  ? 
Or  wherefore  show  how  knights  prevail 

When  ladies  dare  to  hear? 
Or  wherefore  trace  from  what  slight  cause 
Its  source  one  tyrant  passion  draws, 

Till,  mastering  all  within, 
Where  lives  the  man  that  has  not  tried 
How  mirth  can  into  folly  glide 

And  folly  into  sin  ! ' 


8Hje  Brftial  of  Crtermam. 

CANTO   SECOND. 
ILsuIpb's  €ale  Continue!*. 


1  Another  day,  another  day, 
And  yet  another,  glides  away  ! 
The  Saxon  stern,  the  pagan  Dane, 
Maraud  on  Britain's  shores  again. 
Arthur,  of  Christendom  the  flower, 
Lies  loitering  in  a  lady's  bower  ; 


344 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


The  horn  that  foemen  wont  to  fear 
Sounds  but  to  wake  the  Cumbrian  deer, 
And  Caliburn,  the  British  pride, 
Hangs  useless  by  a  lover's  side. 


Another  day,  another  day, 
And  yet  another,  glides  away. 
Heroic  plans  in  pleasure  drowned, 
He  thinks  not  of  the  Table  Round  ; 
In  lawless  love  dissolved  his  life, 
He  thinks  not  of  his  beauteous  wife : 
Better  he  loves  to  snatch  a  flower 
From  bosom  of  his  paramour 
Than  from  a  Saxon  knight  to  wrest 
The  honors  of  his  heathen  crest ; 
Better  to  wreathe  mid  tresses  brown 
The  heron's  plume  her  hawk  struck  down 
Than  o'er  the  altar  give  to  flow 
The  banners  of  a  Paynim  foe. 
Thus  week  by  week  and  day  by  day 
His  life  inglorious  glides  away  ; 
But  she  that  soothes  his  dream  with  fear 
Beholds  his  hour  of  waking  near. 


;  Much  force  have  mortal  charms  to  stay 
Our  pace  in  Virtue's  toilsome  way ; 
But  Guendolen's  might  far  outshine 
Each  maid  of  merely  mortal  line. 
Her  mother  was  of  human  birth, 
Her  sire  a  Genie  of  the  earth, 
In  days  of  old  deemed  to  preside 
O'er  lovers'  wiles  and  beauty's  pride, 
By  youths  and  virgins  worshipped  long 
With  festive  dance  and  choral  song, 
Till,  when  the  cross  to  Britain  came, 
On  heathen  altars  died  the  flame. 
Now,  deep  in  Wastdale  solitude, 
The  downfall  of  his  rights  he  rued, 
And  born  of  his  resentment  heir, 
He  trained  to  guile  that  lady  fair, 
To  sink  in  slothful  sin  and  shame 
The  champions  of  the  Christian  name. 
Well  skilled  to  keep  vain  thoughts  alive, 
And  all  to  promise,  naught  to  give, 
The  timid  youth  had  hope  in  store, 
The  bold  and  pressing  gained  no  more. 
As  wildered  children  leave  their  home 
After  the  rainbow's  arch  to  roam, 
Her  lovers  bartered  fair  esteem, 
Faith,  fame,  and  honor,  for  a  dream. 


■  Her  sire's  soft  arts  the  soul  to  tame 
She  practised  thus  —  till  Arthur  came  ; 
Then  frail  humanity  had  part, 
And  all  the  mother  claimed  her  heart. 
Forgot  each  rule  her  father  gave, 
Sunk  from  a  princess  to  a  slave, 


Too  late  must  Guendolen  deplore, 
He  that  has  all  can  hope  no  more  ! 
Now  must  she  see  her  lover  strain 
At  every  turn  her  feeble  chain, 
Watch  to  new-bind  each  knot  and  shrink 
To  view  each  fast-decaying  link. 
Art  she  invokes  to  Nature's  aid, 
Her  vest  to  zone,  her  locks  to  braid ; 
Each  varied  pleasure  heard  her  call, 
The  feast,  the  tourney,  and  the  ball : 
Her  storied  lore  she  next  applies, 
Taxing  her  mind  to  aid  her  eyes  ; 
Now  more  than  mortal  wise  and  then 
In  female  softness  sunk  again  ; 
Now  raptured  with  each  wish  complying, 
With  feigned  reluctance  now  denying ; 
Each  charm  she  varied  to  retain 
A  varying  heart  —  and  all  in  vain  ! 

v. 

'  Thus  in  the  garden's  narrow  bound 
Flanked  by  some  castle's  Gothic  round. 
Fain  would  the  artist's  skill  provide 
The  limits  of  his  realms  to  hide. 
The  walks  in  labyrinths  he  twines, 
Shade  after  shade  with  skill  combines 
With  many  a  varied  flowery  knot 
And  copse  and  arbor  decks  the  spot, 
Tempting  the  hasty  foot  to  stay 
And  linger  on  the  lovely  way  — 
Vain  art !  vain  hope  !  't  is  fruitless  all ! 
At  length  we  reach  the  bounding  wall, 
And,  sick  of  flower  and  trim-dressed  tree, 
Long  for  rough  glades  and  forest  free. 

VI. 

'  Three  summer  months  had  scantly  flown 
When  Arthur  in  embarrassed  tone 
Spoke  of  his  liegemen  and  his  throne  : 
Said  all  too  long  had  been  his  stay, 
And  duties  which  a  monarch  sway, 
Duties  unknown  to  humbler  men, 
Must  tear  her  knight  from  Guendolen. 
She  listened  silently  the  while, 
Her  mood  expressed  in  bitter  smile 
Beneath  her  eye  must  Arthur  quail 
And  oft  resume  the  unfinished  tale, 
Confessing  by  his  downcast  eye 
The  wrong  he  sought  to  justify. 
He  ceased.     A  moment  mute  she  gazed, 
And  then  her  looks  to  heaven  she  raised ; 
One  palm  her  temples  veiled  to  hide 
The  tear  that  sprung  in  spite  of  pride  : 
The  other  for  an  instant  pressed 
The  foldings  of  her  silken  vest ! 


'  At  her  reproachful  sign  and  look, 

The  hint  the  monarch's  conscience  took. 


THE  BRIDAL    OF   TRIERMAIN. 


345 


Eager  he  spoke  —  "  No,  lady,  no  ! 

Deem  not  of  British  Arthur  so, 

Nor  think  he  can  deserter  prove 

To  the  dear  pledge  of  mutual  love. 

I  swear  by  sceptre  and  by  sword, 

As  belted  knight  and  Britain's  lord, 

That  if  a  boy  shall  claim  my  care, 

That  boy  is  born  a  kingdom's  heir; 

But,  if  a  maiden  Fate  allows, 

To  choose  that  mate  a  fitting  spouse, 

A  summer-day  in  lists  shall  strive 

My  knights  —  the  bravest  knights  alive  — 


The  monarch  gave  a  passing  sigh 
To  penitence  and  pleasures  by, 
When,  lo  !  to  his  astonished  ken 
Appeared  the  form  of  Guendolen. 

IX. 

4  Beyond  the  outmost  wall  she  stood, 
Attired  like  huntress  of  the  wood : 
Sandalled  her  feet,  her  ankles  bare, 
And  eagle-plumage  decked  her  hair  ; 
Firm  was  her  look,  her  bearing  bold, 
And  in  her  hand  a  cup  of  gold. 


And  he,  the  best  and  bravest  tried, 
Shall  Arthur's  daughter  claim  for  bride." 
He  spoke  with  voice  resolved  and  high  — 
The  lady  deigned  him  not  reply. 

VIII. 

'  At  dawn  of  morn  ere  on  the  brake 
His  matins  did  a  warbler  make 
Or  stirred  his  wing  to  brush  away 
A  single  dewdrop  from  the  spray, 
Ere  yet  a  sunbeam  through  the  mist 
The  castle-battlements  had  kissed, 
The  gates  revolve,  the  drawbridge  falls, 
And  Arthur  sallies  from  the  walls. 
Doffed  his  soft  garb  of  Persia's  loom, 
And  steel  from  spur  to  helmet  plume, 
His  Lybian  steed  full  proudly  trode, 
And  joyful  neighed  beneath  his  load. 


"  Thou  goest !  "  she  said,  "  and  ne'er  again 

Must  we  two  meet  in  joy  or  pain. 

Full  fain  would  I  this  hour  delay, 

Though  weak  the  wish  — yet  wilt  thou  stay  ? 

No!  thou  look'st  forward.     Still  attend, — 

Part  we  like  lover  and  like  friend." 

She  raised  the  cup  —  "  Not  this  the  juice 

The  sluggish  vines  of  earth  produce  ; 

Pledge  we  at  parting  in  the  draught 

Which  Genii  love  !  " — she  said  and  quaffed; 

And  strange  unwonted  lustres  fly 

From  her  flushed  cheek  and  sparkling  eye. 


'  The  courteous  monarch  bent  him  low 
And,  stooping  down  from  saddlebow, 
Lifted  the  cup  in  act  to  drink. 
A  drop  escaped  the  goblet's  brink  — 


346 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Intense  as  liquid  fire  from  hell, 
Upon  the  charger's  neck  it  fell. 
Screaming  with  agony  and  fright, 
He  bolted  twenty  feet  upright  — 
The  peasant  still  can  show  the  dint 
Where  his  hoofs  lighted  on  the  flint.  — 
From  Arthur's  hand  the  goblet  flew, 
Scattering  a  shower  of  fiery  dew 
That  burned  and  blighted  where  it  fell  ! 
The  frantic  steed  rushed  up  the  dell, 
As  whistles  from  the  bow  the  reed ; 
Nor  bit  nor  rein  could  check  his  speed 

Until  he  gained  the  hill ; 
Then  breath  and  sinew  failed  apace, 
And,  reeling  from  the  desperate  race, 

He  stood  exhausted,  still. 
The  monarch,  breathless  and  amazed, 
Back  on  the  fatal  castle  gazed  — 
Nor  tower  nor  donjon  could  he  spy, 
Darkening  against  the  morning  sky ; 
But  on  the  spot  where  once  they  frowned 
The  lonely  streamlet  brawled  around 
A  tufted  knoll,  where  dimly  shone 
Fragments  of  rock  and  rifted  stone, 
fusing  on  this  strange  hap  the  while, 
The  king  wends  back  to  fair  Carlisle ; 
And  cares  that  cumber  royal  sway 
■Wore  memory  of  the  past  away. 


XI. 

'  Full  fifteen  years  and  more  were  sped, 

Each  brought  new  wreaths  to  Arthur's  head. 

Twelve  bloody  fields  with  glory  fought 

The  Saxons  to  subjection  brought : 

Rython,  the  mighty  giant,  slain 

By  his  good  brand,  relieved  Bretagne  : 

The  Pictish  Gillamore  in  fight 

And  Roman  Lucius  owned  his  might ; 

And  wide  were  through  the  world  renowned 

The  glories  of  his  Table  Round. 

Each  knight  who  sought  adventurous  fame 

To  the  bold  court  of  Britain  came, 

And  all  who  suffered  causeless  wrong, 

From  tyrant  proud  or  faitour  strong, 

Sought  Arthur's  presence  to  complain, 

Nor  there  for  aid  implored  in  vain. 

XII. 

4  For  this  the  king  with  pomp  and  pride 
Held  solemn  court  at  Whitsuntide, 

And  summoned  prince  and  peer, 
All  who  owed  homage  for  their  land, 
Or  who  craved  knighthood  from  his  hand, 
Or  who  had  succour  to  demand, 

To  come  from  far  and  near. 
At  such  high  tide  were  glee  and  game 
Mingled  with  feats  of  martial  fame, 
For  many  a  stranger  champion  came 

In  lists  to  break  a  spear  ; 


And  not  a  knight  of  Arthur's  host, 
Save  that  he  trode  some  foreign  coast, 
But  at  this  feast  of  Pentecost 

Before  him  must  appear. 
Ah,  minstrels  !  when  the  Table  Round 
Arose  with  all  its  warriors  crowned, 
There  was  a  theme  for  bards  to  sound 

In  triumph  to  their  string  ! 
Five  hundred  years  are  past  and  gone, 
But  time  shall  draw  his  dying  groan 
Ere  he  behold  the  British  throne 

Begirt  with  such  a  ring ! 

XIII. 

'  The  heralds  named  the  appointed  spot, 
As  Caerleon  or  Camelot, 

Or  Carlisle  fair  and  free. 
At  Penrith  now  the  feast  was  set, 
And  in  fair  Eamont's  vale  were  met 

The  flower  of  chivalry. 
There  Galaad  sate  with  manly  grace, 
Yet  maiden  meekness  in  his  face  ; 
There  Morolt  of  the  iron  mace, 

And  love-lorn  Tristrem  there  ; 
And  Dinadam  with  lively  glance, 
And  Larival  with  the  fairy  lance, 
And  Mordred  with  his  look  askance, 

Brunor  and  Bevidere. 
Why  should  I  tell  of  numbers  more  ? 
Sir  Cay,  Sir  Bannier,  and  Sir  Bore, 

Sir  Carodac  the  keen, 
The  gentle  Gawain's  courteous  lore, 
Hector  de  Mares  and  Pellinore, 
And  Lancelot,  that  evermore 

Looked  stolen-wise  on  the  queen. 

xiv. 

'  When  wine  and  mirth  did  most  abound 
And  harpers  played  their  blithest  round, 
A  shrilly  trumpet  shook  the  ground 

And  marshals  cleared  the  ring ; 
A  maiden  on  a  palfrey  white, 
Heading  a  band  of  damsels  bright, 
Paced  through  the  circle  to  alight 

And  kneel  before  the  king. 
Arthur  with  strong  emotion  saw 
Her  graceful  boldness  checked  by  awd 
Her  dress  like  huntress  of  the  wold, 
Her  bow  and  baldric  trapped  with  gold, 
Her  sandalled  feet,  her  ankles  bare, 
And  the  eagle-plume  that  decked  her  hair. 
Graceful  her  veil  she  backward  flung  — 
The  king,  as  from  his  seat  he  sprung, 

Almost  cried,  "  Guendolen  !  " 
But  't  was  a  face  more  frank  and  wild, 
Betwixt  the  woman  and  the  child, 
Where  less  of  magic  beauty  smiled 

Than  of  the  race  of  men ; 
And  in  the  forehead's  haughty  grace 


THE  BRIDAL    OF   TRIERMAIN. 


347 


The  lines  of  Britain's  royal  race. 
Pendragon's  you  might  ken. 


*  Faltering,  yet  gracefully  she  said  — 

"  Great  Prince  !  behold  an  orphan  maid, 
In  her  departed  mother's  name, 
A  father's  vowed  protection  claim ! 
The  vow  was  sworn  in  desert  lone 
In  the  deep  valley  of  Saint  John." 
At  once  the  king  the  suppliant  raised, 
And  kissed  her  brow,  her  beauty  praised ; 
His  vow,  he  said,  should  well  be  kept, 
Ere  in  the  sea  the  sun  was  dipped,  — 
Then  conscious  glanced  upon  his  queen  : 
But  she,  unruffled  at  the  scene 
Of  human  frailty  construed  mild, 
Looked  upon  Lancelot  and  smiled. 

xvi. 

*  "  Up  !  up  !  each  knight  of  gallant  crest 

Take  buckler,  spear,  and  brand  ! 
He  that  to-day  shall  bear  him  best 

Shall  win  my  Gyneth's  hand. 
And  Arthur's  daughter  when  a  bride 

Shall  bring  a  noble  dower, 
Both  fair  Strath-Clyde  and  Reged  wide, 

And  Carlisle  town  and  tower." 
Then  might  you  hear  each  valiant  knight 

To  page  and  squire  that  cried, 
"  Bring  my  armor  bright  and  my  courser 

wight; 
'T  is  not  each  day  that  a  warrior's  might 

May  win  a  royal  bride." 
Then  cloaks  and  caps  of  maintenance 

In  haste  aside  they  fling ; 
The  helmets  glance  and  gleams  the  lance, 

And  the  steel-weaved  hauberks  ring. 
Small  care  had  they  of  their  peaceful  array, 

They  might  gather  it  that  wolde ; 


For  brake  and  bramble  glittered  gay 
With  pearls  and  cloth  of  gold. 

XVII. 

1  Within  trumpet  sound  of  the  Table  Round, 

Were  fifty  champions  free, 
And  they  all  arise  to  fight  that  prize,— 

They  all  arise  but  three. 
Nor  love's  fond  troth  nor  wedlock's  oath 

One  gallant  could  withhold, 
For  priests  will  allow  of  a  broken  vow 

For  penance  or  for  gold. 
But  sigh  and  glance  from  ladies  bright 

Among  the  troop  were  thrown, 
To  plead  their  right  and  true-love  plight, 

And  plain  of  honor  flown. 
The  knights  they  busied  them  so  fast 

With  buckling  spur  and  belt 
That  sigh  and  look  by  ladies  cast 

Were  neither  seen  nor  felt. 
From  pleading  or  upbraiding  glance 

Each  gallant  turns  aside, 
And  only  thought,  "  If  speeds  my  lance, 

A  queen  becomes  my  bride  ! 
She  has  fair  Strath-Clyde  and  Reged  wide, 

And  Carlisle  tower  and  town  ; 
She  is  the  loveliest  maid,  beside, 

That  ever  heired  a  crown." 
So  in  haste  their  coursers  they  bestride 

And  strike  their  visors  down.  • 

XVIII. 

1  The  champions,  armed  in  martial  sort, 

Have  thronged  into  the  list, 
And  but  three  knights  of  Arthur's  court 

Are  from  the  tourney  missed. 
And  still  these  lovers'  fame  survives 

For  faith  so  constant  shown,  — 
There  were  two  who  loved  their  neighbors' 
wives, 


348 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL    WORKS. 


And  one  who  loved  his  own. 
The  first  was  Lancelot  de  Lac, 

The  second  Tristrem  bold, 
The  third  was  valiant  Carodac, 

Who  won  the  cup  of  gold 
What  time;  of  all  King  Arthur's  crew  — 

Thereof  came  jeer  and  laugh  — 
He,  as  the  mate  of  lady  true, 

Alone  the  cup  could  quaff. 
Though  envy's  tongue  would  fain  surmise 

That,  but  for  very  shame, 
Sir  Carodac  to  fight  that  prize 

Had  given  both  cup  and  dame , 
Yet,  since  but  one  of  that  fair  court 

Was  true  to  wedlock's  shrine, 
Brand  him  who  will  with  base  report, 

He  shall  be  free  from  mine. 

XIX. 

4  Now  caracoled  the  steeds  in  air, 
Now  plumes  and  pennons  wantoned  fair, 
As  all  around  the  lists  so  wide 
In  panoply  the  champions  ride. 
King  Arthur  saw  with  startled  eye 
The  flower  of  chivalry  march  by, 
The  bulwark  of  the  Christian  creed. 
The  kingdom's  shield  in  hour  of  need. 
Too  late  he  thought  him  of  the  woe 
Might  from  their  civil  conflict  flow ; 
For  well  he  knew  they  would  not  part 
Till  cold  was  many  a  gallant  heart. 
His  hasty  vow  he  'gan  to  rue, 
And  Gyneth  then  apart  he  drew ; 
To  her  his  leading-staff  resigned, 
But  added  caution  grave  and  kind. 


xx. 

;  "  Thou  see'st,  my  child,  as  promise-bound, 

I  bid  the  trump  for  tourney  sound. 

Take  thou  my  warder  as  the  queen 

And  umpire  of  the  martial  scene; 

But  mark  thou  this  :  — as  Beauty  bright 

Is  polar  star  to  valiant  knight, 

As  at  her  word  his  sword  he  draws, 

I  lis  fairest  guerdon  her  applause, 

So  gentle  maid  should  never  ask 

Of  knighthood  vain  and  dangerous  task ; 

And  Beauty's  eyes  should  ever  be 

Like  the  twin  stars  that  soothe  the  sea, 

And  Beauty's  breath  should  whisper  peace 

And  bid  the  storm  of  battle  cease. 

I  tell  thee  this  lest  all  too  far 

These  knights  urge  tourney  into  war. 

Blithe  at  the  trumpet  let  them  go, 

And  fairly  counter  blow  for  blow  ;  — 

No  striplings  these,  who  succor  need 

For  a  razed  helm  or  falling  steed. 

But.  Gyneth,  when  the  strife  grows  warm 

And  threatens  death  or  deadly  harm, 


Thy  sire  entreats,  thy  king  commands, 
Thou  drop  the  warder  from  thy  hands. 
Trust  thou  thy  father  with  thy  fate, 
Doubt  not  he  choose  thee  fitting  mate  : 
Nor  be  it  said  through  Gyneth 's  pride 
A  rose  of  Arthur's  chaplet  died." 


xxi. 

1  A  proud  and  discontented  glow 
O'ershadowed  Gyneth's  brow  of  snow; 

She  put  the  warder  by  :  — 
"  Reserve  thy  boon,  my* liege,"  she  said. 
"  Thus  chaffered  down  and  limited, 
Debased  and  narrowed  for  a  maid 

Of  less  degree  than  I. 
No  petty  chief  but  holds  his  heir 
At  a  more  honored  price  and  rare 

Than  Britain's  King  holds  me  ! 
Although  the  sun-burned  maid  for  dower 
Has  but  her  father's  rugged  tower, 

His  barren  hill  and  lee." 
King  Arthur  swore,  "  By  crown  and  sword. 
As  belted  knight  and  Britain's  lord, 
That  a  whole  summer's  day  should  strive 
His  knights,  the  bravest  knights  alive  !  "  — 
"  Recall  thine  oath  !  and  to  her  glen 
Poor  Gyneth  can  return  agen ; 
Not  on  thy  daughter  will  the  stain 
That  soils  thy  sword  and  crown  remain. 
But  think  not  she  will  e'er  be  bride 
Save  to  the  bravest,  proved  and  tried : 
Pendragon's  daughter  will  not  fear 
For  clashing  sword  or  splintered  spear, 

Nor  shrink  though  blood  should  flow : 
And  all  too  well  sad  Guendolen 
Hath  taught  the  faithlessness  of  men 
That  child  of  hers  should  pity  when 

Their  meed  they  undergo." 

XXII. 

'  He    frowned    and    sighed,    the    monarch 

bold :  — . 
"  I  give  —  what  I  may  not  withhold  ; 
For,  not  for  danger,  dread,  or  death, 
Must  British  Arthur  break  his  faith. 
Too  late  I  mark  thy  mother's  art 
Hath  taught  thee  this  relentless  part. 
I  blame  her  not,  for  she  had  wrong, 
But  not  to  these  my  faults  belong. 
Use  then  the  warder  as  thou  wilt : 
But  trust  me  that,  if  life  be  spilt, 
In  Arthur's  love,  in  Arthur's  grace, 
Gyneth  shall  lose  a  daughter's  place.*' 
With  that  he  turned  his  head  aside, 
Nor  brooked  to  gaze  upon  her  pride, 
As  with  the  truncheon  raised  she  sate 
The  arbitress  of  mortal  fate ; 
Nor  brooked  to  mark  in  ranks  disposed 
How  the  bold  champions  stood  opposed. 


THE  BRIDAL    OF   TRIERMAIN. 


349 


For  shrill  the  trumpet-flourish  fell 
Upon  his  ear  like  passing  bell  ! 
Then  first  from  sight  of  martial  fray 
Did  Britain's  hero  turn  away. 

XXIII. 

'  But  Gyneth  heard  the  clangor  high 
As  hears  the  hawk  the  partridge  cry. 
O,  blame  her  not !  the  blood  was  hers 
That  at  the  trumpet's  summons  stirs  !  - 
And  e'en  the  gentlest  female  eye 
Might  the  brave  strife  of  chivalry 
Awhile  untroubled  view ; 


Like  lark's  shrill  song  the  flourish  flows, 
Heard  while  the  gale  of  April  blows 
The  merry  greenwood  through. 

xxiv. 
'  But  soon  to  earnest  grew  their  game, 
The  spears  drew  blood,  the  swords  struck 

flame, 
And,  horse  and  man,  to  ground  there  came 

Knights  who  shall  rise  no  more ! 
Gone  was  the  pride  the  war  that  graced, 
Gay  shields  were  cleft  and  crests  defaced, 
And  steel  coats  riven  and  helms  unbraced, 


So  well  accomplished  was  each  knight 
To  strike  and  to  defend  in  fight, 
Their  meeting  was  a  goodly  sight 

While  plate  and  mail  held  true. 
The  lists  with  painted  plumes  were  strown, 
Upon  the  wind  at  random  thrown, 
But  helm  and  breastplate  bloodless  shone. 
It  seemed  their  feathered  crests  alone 

Should  this  encounter  rue. 
And  ever,  as  the  combat  grows, 
The  trumpet's  cheery  voice  arose, 


And  pennons  streamed  with  gore. 
Gone  too  were  fence  and  fair  array, 
And  desperate  strength  made  deadly  way 
At  random  through  the  bloody  fray, 
And     blows    were     dealt    with     headlong 
sway, 

Unheeding  where  they  fell ; 
And  now  the  trumpet's  clamors  seem 
Like  the  shrill  sea-bird's  wailing  scream 
Heard  o'er  the  whirlpool's  gulfing  stream, 

The  sinking  seaman's  knell ! 


35o 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL    WORKS. 


xxv. 

'  Seemed  in  this  dismal  hour  that  Fate 
Would  Camlan's  ruin  antedate, 

And  spare  dark  Mordred's  crime ; 
Already  gasping  on  the  ground 
Lie  twenty  of  the  Table  Round, 

Of  chivalry  the  prime. 
Arthur  in  anguish  tore  away 
From  head  and  beard  his  tresses  gray, 
And  she,  proud  Gyneth,  felt  dismay 

And  quaked  with  ruth  and  fear ; 
But  still  she  deemed  her  mother's  shade 
Hung  o'er  the  tumult,  and  forbade 
The  sign  that  had  the  slaughter  staid, 

And  chid  the  rising  tear. 
Then  Brunor,  Taulas,  Mador,  fell, 
Helias  the  White,  and  Lionel, 

And  many  a  champion  more ; 
Rochemont  and  Dinadam  are  down, 
And  Ferrand  of  the  Forest  Brown 

Lies  gasping  in  his  gore. 
Vanoc,  by  mighty  Morolt  pressed 
Even  to  the  confines  of  the  list, 
Young  Vanoc  of  the  beardless  face  — 
Fame  spoke  the  youth  of  Merlin's  race  — 
O'erpowered  at  Gyneth's  footstool  bled, 
His  heart's-blood  dyed  her  sandals  red. 
But  then  the  sky  was  overcast, 
Then  howled  at  once  a  whirlwind's  blast, 

And,  rent  by  sudden  throes, 
Yawned  in  mid  lists  the  quaking  earth, 
And  from  the  gulf — tremendous  birth  !  — 

The  form  of  Merlin  rose. 


XXVI. 

*  Sternly  the  Wizard  Prophet  eyed 

The  dreary  lists  with  slaughter  dyed, 
And  sternly  raised  his  hand  :  — 

"  Madmen,"  he  said,  "  your  strife  forbear  ! 

And  thou,  fair  cause  of  mischief,  hear 
The  doom  thy  fates  demand  ! 
Long  shall  close  in  stony  sleep 
Eyes  for  ruth  that  would  not  weep  ; 
Iron  lethargy  shall  seal 
Heart  that  pity  scorned  to  feel. 
Yet,  because  thy  mother's  art 
Warped  thine  unsuspicious  heart, 
And  for  love  of  Arthur's  race 
Punishment  is  blent  with  grace, 
Thou  shalt  bear  thy  penance  lone 
In  the  valley  of  Saint  John, 
And  this  weird  shall  overtake  thee ; 
S2eep  until  a  knight  shall  wake  thee, 
For  feats  of  arms  as  far  renowned 
As  warrior  of  the  Table  Round. 
I  joe  endurance  of  thy  slumber 
Well  may  teach  the  world  to  number 
All  their  woes  from  Gyneth's  pride, 
When  the  Red  Cross  champions  died." 


XXVII. 

'As  Merlin  speaks,  on  Gyneth's  eye 
Slumber's  load  begins  to  lie ; 
Fear  and  anger  vainly  strive 
Still  to  keep  its  light  alive. 
Twice  with  effort  and  with  pause 
O'er  her  brow  her  hand  she  draws ; 
Twice  her  strength  in  vain  she  tries 
From  the  fatal  chair  to  rise  ; 
Merlin's  magic  doom  is  spoken, 
Vanoc's  death  must  now  be  wroken. 
Slow  the  dark-fringed  eyelids  fall, 
Curtaining  each  azure  ball, 
Slowly  as  on  summer  eves 
Violets  fold  their  dusky  leaves. 
The  weighty  baton  of  command 
Now  bears  down  her  sinking  hand, 
On  her  shoulder  droops  her  head  ; 
Net  of  pearl  and  golden  thread 
Bursting  gave  her  locks  to  flow 
O'er  her  arm  and  breast  of  snow. 
And  so  lovely  seemed  she  there, 
Spell-bound  in  her  ivory  chair, 
That  her  angry  sire  repenting 
Craved  stern  Merlin  for  relenting, 
And  the  champions  for  her  sake 
Would  again  the  contest  wake  ; 
Till  in  necromantic  night 
Gyneth  vanished  from  their  sight. 

XXVIII. 

'  Still  she  bears  her  weird  alone 
In  the  Valley  of  Saint  John  : 
And  her  semblance  oft  will  seem, 
Mingling  in  a  champion's  dream, 
Of  her  weary  lot  to  plain 
And  crave  his  aid  to  burst  her  chain. 
While  her  wondrous  tale  was  new 
Warriors  to  her  rescue  drew, 
East  and  west,  and  south  and  north, 
From  the  Liffy,  Thames,  and  Forth. 
Most  have  sought  in  vain  the  glen, 
Tower  nor  castle  could  they  ken ; 
Not  at  every  time  or  tide, 
Nor  by  every  eye,  descried. 
Fast  and  vigil  must  be  borne, 
Many  a  night  in  watching  worn, 
Ere  an  eye  of  mortal  powers 
Can  discern  those  magic  towers. 
Of  the  persevering  few 
Some  from  hopeless  task  withdrew 
When  they  read  the  dismal  threat 
Graved  upon  the  gloomy  gate. 
Few  have  braved  the  yawning  door, 
And  those  few  returned  no  more. 
In  the  lapse  of  time  forgot, 
Wellnigh  lost  is  Gyneth's  lot ; 
Sound  her  sleep  as  in  the  tomb 
Till  wakened  by  the  trump  of  doom.' 

3Eno  of  ilsulptJ's  &alc. 


THE  BRIDAL   OF   TRIERMA1N. 


351 


Here  pause,  my  tale  ;  for  all  too  soon, 
My  Lucy,  comes  the  hour  of  noon. 
Already  from  thy  lofty  dome 
Its  courtly  inmates  'gin  to  roam, 
And  each,  to  kill  the  goodly  day 
That  God  has  granted  them,  his  way 
Of  lazy  sauntering  has  sought ; 

Lordlings  and  witlings  not  a  few, 
Incapable  of  doing  aught, 
Yet  ill  at  ease  with  naught  to  do. 
Here  is  no  longer  place  for  me  ; 
For,  Lucy,  thou  wouldst  blush  to  see 
Some  phantom  fashionably  thin, 
With  limb  of  lath  and  kerchiefed  chin, 
And  lounging  gape  or  sneering  grin, 
Steal  sudden  on  our  privacy. 
And  how  should  I,  so  humbly  born, 
Endure  the  graceful  spectre's  scorn? 
Faith  !  ill,  I  fear,  while  conjuring  wand 
Of  English  oak  is  hard  at  hand. 

11. 
Or  grant  the  hour  be  all  too  soon 
For  Hessian  boot  and  pantaloon, 


And  grant  the  lounger  seldom  strays 
Beyond  the  smooth  and  gravelled  maze, 
Laud  we  the  gods  that  Fashion's  train 
Holds  hearts  of  more  adventurous  strain. 
Artists  are  hers  who  scorn  to  trace 
Their  rules  from  Nature's  boundless  grace. 
But  their  right  paramount  assert 
To  limit  her  by  pedant  art, 
Damning  whate'er  of  vast  and  fair 
Exceeds  a  canvass  three  feet  square. 
This  thicket,  for  their  gumption  fit, 
May  furnish  such  a  happy  bit. 
Bards  too  are  hers,  wont  to  recite 
Their  own  sweet  lays  by  waxen  light, 
Half  in  the  salver's  tingle  drowned, 
While  the  chasse-cafe  glides  around  ; 
And  such  may  hither  secret  stray 
To  labor  an  extempore : 
Or  sportsman  with  his  boisterous  hollo 
May  here  his  wiser  spaniel  follow, 
Or  stage-struck  Juliet  may  presume 
To  choose  this  bower  for  tiring-room ; 
And  we  alike  must  shun  regard 
From  painter,  player,  sportsman,  bard. 
Insects  that  skim  in  fashion's  sky, 


352 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL    WORKS. 


Wasp,  blue-bottle,  or  butterfly, 
Lucy,  have  all  alarms  for  us, 
For  all  can  hum  and  all  can  buzz. 


But  0,  my  Lucy,  say  how  long 
We  still  must  dread  this  trifling  throng, 
And  stoop  to  hide  with  coward  art 
The  genuine  feelings  of  the  heart ! 
No  parents  thine  whose  just  command 
Should  rule  their  child's  obedient  hand  ; 
Thy  guardians  with  contending  voice 
Press  each  his  individual  choice. 
And  which  is  Lucy's  ?  —  Can  it  be 
That  puny  fop,  trimmed  cap-a-pee, 
Who  loves  in  the  saloon  to  show 
The  arms  that  never  knew  a  foe : 
Whose  sabre  trails  along  the  ground, 
Whose  legs  in  shapeless  boots  are  drowned 
A  new  Achilles,  sure  — the  steel 
Fled  from  his  breast  to  fence  his  heel ; 
One,  for  the  simple  manly  grace 
That  wont  to  deck  our  martial  race, 

Who  comes  in  foreign  trashery 
Of  tinkling  chain  and  spur, 

A  walking  haberdashery 
Of  feathers,  lace,  and  fur : 
In  Rowley's  antiquated  phrase, 
Horse-milliner  of  modern  days  ? 

IV. 

Or  is  it  he,  the  wordy  youth, 

So  early  trained  for  statesman's  part, 

Who  talks  of  honor,  faith  and  truth, 
As  themes  that  he  has  got  by  heart ; 
Whose  ethics  Chesterfield  can  teach, 
Whose  logic  is  from  Single-speech  ; 
Who  scorns  the  meanest  thought  to  vent 
Save  in  the  phrase  of  Parliament; 
Who,  in  a  tale  of  cat  and  mouse, 
Calls  '  order,'  and  '  divides  the  house,' 
Who  '  craves  permission  to  reply,' 
Whose  'noble  friend  is  in  his  eye ; ' 
Whose  loving  tender  some  have  reckoned 
A  motion  you  should  gladly  second? 


What,  neither  ?     Can  there  be  a  third, 
To  such  resistless  swains  preferred  ? 
O  why,  my  Lucy,  turn  aside 
With  that  quick  glance  of  injured  pride  ? 
Forgive  me,  love,  T  cannot  bear 
That  altered  and  resentful  air. 
Were  all  the  wealth  of  Russel  mine 
And  all  the  rank  of  Howard's  line, 
All  would  I  give  for  leave  to  dry 
That  dewdrop  trembling  in  thine  eye. 
Think  not  I  fear  such  fops  can  wile 


From  Lucy  more  than  careless  smile  ; 
But  yet  if  wealth  and  high  degree 
Give  gilded  counters  currency, 
Must  I  not  fear  when  rank  and  birth 
Stamp  the  pure  ore  of  genuine  worth  ? 
Nobles  there  are  whose  martial  fires 
Rival  the  fame  that  raised  their  sires. 
And  patriots,  skilled  through  storms  of  fate 
To  guide  and  guard  the  reeling  state. 
Such,  such  there  are —  If  such  should  come, 
Arthur  must  tremble  and  be  dumb, 
Self-exiled  seek  some  distant  shore, 
And  mourn  till  life  and  grief  are  o'er. 


VI. 


What  sight,  what  signal  of  alarm, 
That  Lucy  clings  to  Arthur's  arm  ? 
Or  is  it  that  the  rugged  way 
Makes  Beauty  lean  on  lover's  stay? 
O,  no  !  for  on  the  vale  and  brake 
Nor  sight  nor  sounds  of  danger  wake, 
And  this  trim  sward  of  velvet  green 
Were  carpet  for  the  Fairy  Queen. 
That  pressure  slight  was  but  to  tell 
That  Lucy  loves  her  Arthur  well, 
And  fain  would  banish  from  his  mind 
Suspicious  fear  and  doubt  unkind. 


VII. 

But  wouldst  thou  bid  the  demons  fly 

Like  mist  before  the  dawning  sky, 

There  is  but  one  resistless  spell  — 

Say,  wilt  thou  guess  or  must  I  tell  ? 

'T  were  hard  to  name  in  minstrel  phrase 

A  landaulet  and  four  blood-bays, 

But  bards  agree  this  wizard  band 

Can  but  be  bound  in  Northern  land. 

'T  is    there  —  nay,    draw    not    back    thy 

hand ! — 
'T  is  there  this  slender  finger  round 
Must  golden  amulet  be  bound, 
Which,  blessed  with  many  a  holy  prayer, 
Can  change  to  rapture  lovers'  care, 
And  doubt  and  jealousy  shall  die, 
And  fears  give  place  to  ecstasy. 


VIII. 

Now,  trust  me,  Lucy,  all  too  long 
Has  been  thy  lover's  tale  and  song. 
O,  why  so  silent,  love,  I  pray  ? 
Have  I  not  spoke  the  livelong  day  ? 
And  will  not  Lucy  deign  to  say 

One  word  her  friend  to  bless  ? 
I  ask  but  one  —  a  simple  sound, 
Within  three  little  letters  bound  — 

O,  let  the  word  be  YES  ! 


THE  BRIDAL    OF   TRIERMAIN. 


353 


3Efje  SSrioal  of  QLxizxmain. 

CANTO     THIRD. 
INTRODUCTION. 


Long  loved,  long  wooed,  and  lately  won, 
My  life's  best  hope,  and  now  mine  own  ! 
Doth  not  this  rude  and  Alpine  glen 
Recall  our  favorite  haunts  agen  ? 
A  wild  resemblance  we  can  trace, 
Though  reft  of  every  softer  grace, 
As  the  rough  warrior's  brow  may  bear 
A  likeness  to  a  sister  fair. 
Full  well  advised  our  Highland  host 
That  this  wild  pass  on  foot  be  crossed, 
While  round  Ben-Cruach's  mighty  base 
Wheel  the  slow  steeds  and  lingering  chase. 
The  keen  old  carle,  with  Scottish  pride 
He  praised  his  glen  and  mountains  wide  ; 
An  eye  he  bears  for  nature's  face, 
Ay,  and  for  woman's  lovely  grace. 


Even  in  such  mean  degree  we  find 
The  subtle  Scot's  observing  mind  ; 
For  nor  the  chariot  nor  the  train 
Could  gape  of  vulgar  wonder  gain, 
But  when  old  Allan  would  expound 
Of  Beal-na-paish  the  Celtic  sound, 
His  bonnet  doffed  and  bow  applied 
His  legend  to  my  bonny  bride  ; 
While  Lucy  blushed  beneath  his  eye, 
Courteous  and  cautious,  shrewd  and  sly, 


Enough  of  him.  —  Now,  ere  we  lose, 
Plunged  in  the  vale,  the  distant  views, 
Turn  thee,  my  love  !  look  back  once  more 
To  the  blue  lake's  retiring  shore. 
On  its  smooth  breast  the  shadows  seem 
Like  objects  in  a  morning  dream, 
What  time  the  slumberer  is  aware 
He  sleeps  and  all  the  vision 's  air  : 
Even  so  on  yonder  liquid  lawn, 
In  hues  of  bright  reflection  drawn, 
Distinct  the  shaggy  mountains  lie, 


354 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL   WORKS. 


Distinct  the  rocks,  distinct  the  sky  ; 
The  summer-clouds  so  plain  we  note 
That  we  might  count  each  dappled  spot : 
We  gaze  and  we  admire,  yet  know 
The  scene  is  all  delusive  show. 
Such  dreams  of  bliss  would  Arthur  draw 
When  first  his  Lucy's  form  he  saw, 
Yet  sighed  and  sickened  as  he  drew, 
Despairing  they  could  e'er  prove  true  ! 


in. 


But,  Lucy,  turn  thee  now  to  view 

Up  the  fair  glen  our  destined  way : 
The  fairy  path  that  we  pursue, 
Distinguished  but  by  greener  hue, 

Winds  round  the  purple  brae, 
While  Alpine  flowers  of  varied  dye 
For  carpet  serve  or  tapestry. 
See  how  the  little  runnels  leap 
In  threads  of  silver  down  the  steep 

To  swell  the  brooklet's  moan  ! 
Seems  that  the  Highland  Naiad  grieves, 
Fantastic  while  her  crown  she  weaves 
Of  rowan,  birch,  and  alder  leaves, 

So  lovely  and  so  lone. 
There  's  no  illusion  there  ;  these  flowers, 
That  wailing  brook,  these  lovely  bowers, 

Are,  Lucy,  all  our  own ; 
And,  since  thine  Arthur  called  thee  wife, 
Such  seems  the  prospect  of  his  life, 
A  lovely  path  on-winding  still 
By  gurgling  brook  and  sloping  hill. 
'T  is  true  that  mortals  cannot  tell 
What  waits  them  in  the  distant  dell ; 
But  be  it  hap  or  be  it  harm, 
We  tread  the  pathway  arm  in  arm. 


IV. 

And  now,  my  Lucy,  wot'st  thou  why 
I  could  thy  bidding  twice  deny, 
When  twice  you  prayed  I  would  again 
Resume  the  legendary  strain 
Of  the  bold  knight  of  Triermain  ? 
At  length  yon  peevish  vow  you  swore 
That  you  would  sue  to  me  no  more, 
Until  the  minstrel  fit  drew  near 
And  made  me  prize  a  listening  ear. 
But,  loveliest,  when  thou  first  didst  pray 
Continuance  of  the  knightly  lay, 
Was  it  not  on  the  happy  day 

That  made  thy  hand  mine  own  ? 
When,  dizzied  with  mine  ecstasy, 
Naught  past,  or  present,  or  to  be, 
Could  I  or  think  on,  hear,  or  see, 

Save,  Lucy,  thee  alone  ! 
A  giddy  draught  my  rapture  was 
As  ever  chemist's  magic  gas. 


v. 

Again  the  summons  I  denied 
In  yon  fair  capital  of  Clyde  : 
My  harp  —  or  let  me  rather  choose 
The  good  old  classic  form  —  my  Muse  - 
For  harp  's  an  over-scutched  phrase, 
Worn  out  by  bards  of  modern  days  — 
My  Muse,  then  —  seldom  will  she  wake, 
Save  by  dim  wood  and  silent  lake ; 
She  is  the  wild  and  rustic  maid 
Whose  foot  unsandalled  loves  to  tread 
Where  the  soft  greensward  is  inlaid 

With  varied  moss  and  thyme ; 
And,  lest  the  simple  lily-braid, 
That  coronets  her  temples  fade, 
She  hides  her  still  in  greenwood  shade 

To  meditate  her  rhyme. 


And  now  she  comes  !  The  murmur  dear 
Of  the  wild  brook  hath  caught  her  ear, 

The  glade  hath  won  her  eye ; 
She  longs  to  join  with  each  blithe  rill 
That  dances  down  the  Highland  hill 

Her  blither  melody. 
And  now  my  Lucy's  way  to  cheer 
She  bids  Ben-Cruach's  echoes  hear 
How  closed  the  tale  my  love  whilere 

Loved  for  its  chivalry. 
List  how  she  tells  in  notes  of  flame 
•  Child  Roland  to  the  dark  tower  came  ! ' 


2T}je  Brioal  of  Crfermam. 

CANTO    THIRD. 


Bewcastle  now  must  keep  the  hold, 

Speir-Adam's  steeds  must  bide  in  stall. 
Of  Hartley-burn  the  bowmen  bold 

Must  only  shoot  from  battled  wall ; 
And  Liddesdale  may  buckle  spur, 

And  Teviot  now  may  belt  the  brand, 
Tarras  and  Ewes  keep  nightly  stir, 

And  Eskdale  foray  Cumberland. 
Of  wasted  fields  and  plundered  flocks 

The  Borderers  bootless  may  complain ; 
They  lack  the  sword  of  brave*  De  Vaux, 

There  comes  no  aid  from  Triermain. 
That  lord  on  high  adventure  bound 

Hath  wandered  forth  alone, 
And  day  and  night  keeps  watchful  round 

In  the  valley  of  Saint  John. 


THE   BRIDAL    OF   TRIERMAIN. 


355 


When  first  began  his  vigil  bold 

The  moon  twelve  summer  nights  was  old 

And  shone  both  fair  and  full ; 
High  in  the  vault  of  cloudless  blue, 
O'er  streamlet,  dale,  and  rock,  she  threw 

Her  light  composed  and  cool. 
Stretched  on  the  brown  hill's  heathy  breast, 

Sir  Roland  eyed  the  vale  ; 
Chief  where,  distinguished  from  the  rest, 
Those  clustering  rocks  upreared  their  crest, 
The  dwelling  of  the  fair  distressed, 

As  told  gray  Lyulph's  tale. 
Thus  as  he  lay,  the  lamp  of  night 
Was  quivering  on  his  armor  bright 

In  beams  that  rose  and  fell, 
And  danced  upon  his  buckler's  boss 
That  lay  beside  him  on  the  moss 

As  on  a  crystal  well. 

in. 
Ever  he  watched  and  oft  he  deemed, 
While  on  the  mound  the  moonlight  streamed, 

It  altered  to  his  eyes; 
Fain  would  he  hope  the  rocks  'gan  change 
To  buttressed  walls  their  shapeless  range, 
Fain  think  by  transmutation  strange 

He  saw  gray  turrets  rise. 
But  scarce  his  heart  with  hope  throbbed 

high 
Before  the  wild  illusions  fly 

Which  fancy  had  conceived, 
Abetted  by  an  anxious  eye 

That  longed  to  be  deceived. 
It  was  a  fond  deception  all, 
Such  as  in  solitary  hall 

Beguiles  the  musing  eye 
When,  gazing  on  the  sinking  fire, 
Bulwark,  and  battlement,  and  spire 

In  the  red  gulf  we  spy. 
For,  seen  by  moon  of  middle  night, 
Or  by  the  blaze  of  noontide  bright, 
Or  by  the  dawn  of  morning  light, 

Or  evening's  western  flame, 
In  every  tide,  at  every  hour, 
In  mist,  in  sunshine,  and  in  shower, 

The  rocks  remained  the  same. 


Oft  has  he  traced  the  charmed  mound, 
Oft  climbed  its  crest  or  paced  it  round, 

Yet  nothing  might  explore, 
Save  that  the  crags  so  rudely  piled, 
At  distance  seen,  resemblance  wild 

To  a  rough  fortress  bore. 
Yet  still  his  watch  the  warrior  keeps, 
Feeds  hard  and  spare,  and  seldom  sleeps, 

And  drinks  but  of  the  well ; 
Ever  by  day  he  walks  the  hill, 
And  when  the  evening  gale  is  chill 


He  seeks  a  rocky  cell, 
Like  hermit  poor  to  bid  his  bead, 
And  tell  his  Ave  and  his  Creed, 
Invoking  every  saint  at  need 

For  aid  to  burst  his  spell. 


And  now  the  moon  her  orb  has  hid 
And  dwindled  to  a  silver  thread, 

Dim  seen  in  middle  heaven, 
While  o'er  its  curve  careering  fast 
Before  the  fury  of  the  blast 

The  midnight  clouds  are  driven. 
The  brooklet  raved,  for  on  the  hills 
The  upland  showers  had  swoln  the  rills 

And  down  the  torrents  came; 
Muttered  the  distant  thunder  dread, 
And  frequent  o'er  the  vale  was  spread 

A  sheet  of  lightning  flame. 
De  Vaux  within  his  mountain  cave  — 
No  human  step  the  storm  durst  brave  — 
To  moody  meditation  gave 

Each  faculty  of  soul, 
Till,  lulled  by  distant  torrent  sound 
And  the  sad  winds  that  whistled  round, 
Upon  his  thoughts  in  musing  drowned 

A  broken  slumber  stole. 


VI. 

'T  was  then  was  heard  a  heavy  sound  — 

Sound,  strange  and  fearful  there  to  hear, 
'Mongst  desert  hills  where  leagues  around 

Dwelt  but  the  gorcock  and  the  deer. 
As,  starting  from  his  couch  of  fern, 
Again  he  heard  in  clangor  stern 

That  deep  and  solemn  swell, 
Twelve  times  in  measured  tone  it  spoke, 
Like  some  proud  minster's  pealing  clock 

Or  city's  larum-bell. 
What  thought  was  Roland's  first  when  fell 
In  that  deep  wilderness  the  knell 

Upon  his  startled  ear  ? 
To  slander  warrior  were  I  loath, 
Yet  must  I  hold  my  minstrel  troth  — 

It  was  a  thought  of  fear. 


But  lively  was  the  mingled  thrill 
That  chased  that  momentary  chill, 

For  Love's  keen  wish  was  there, 
And  eager  Hope,  and  Valor  high, 
And  the  proud  glow  of  Chivalry 

That  burned  to  do  and  dare. 
Forth  from  the  cave  the  warrior  rushed, 
Long  ere  the  mountain-voice  was  hushed 

That  answered  to  the  knell ; 
For  long  and  far  the  unwonted  sound, 
Eddying  in  echoes  round  and  round, 

Was  tossed  from  fell  to  fell ; 


356 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL   WORKS. 


And  Glaramara  answer  flung, 
And  Grisdale-pike  responsive  rung, 
And  Legbert  heights  their  echoes  swung 
As  far  as  Derwent's  dell. 


VIII. 

Forth  upon  trackless  darkness  gazed 
The  knight,  bedeafened  and  amazed, 

Till  all  was  hushed  and  still, 
Save  the  swoln  torrent's  sullen  roar, 
And  the  night-blast  that  wildly  bore 

Its  course  along  the  hill. 
Then  on  the  northern  sky  there  came 
A  light  as  of  reflected  flame, 

And  over  Legbert-head, 
As  if  by  magic  art  controlled, 
A' mighty  meteor  slowly  rolled 

Its  orb  of  fiery  red  ; 
Thou  wouldst  have  thought  some  demon 

dire 
Came  mounted  on  that  car  of  fire 

To  do  his  errand  dread. 
Far  on  the  sloping  valley's  course, 
On  thicket,  rock,  and  torrent  hoarse, 
Shingle  and  Scrae,  and  Fell  and  Force, 

A  dusky  light  arose : 
Displayed,  yet  altered  was  the  scene  : 
Dark  rock,  and  brook  of  silver  sheen, 
Even  the  gay  thicket's  summer  green, 

In  bloody  tincture  glows. 

IX. 

De  Vaux  had  marked  the  sunbeams  set 
At  eve  upon  the  coronet 

Of  that  enchanted  mound, 
And  seen  but  crags  at  random  flung, 
That,  o'er  the  brawling  torrent  hung, 

In  desolation  frowned. 
What  sees  he  by  that  meteor's  lour  ?  — 
A  bannered  castle,  keep,  and  tower 

Return  the  lurid  gleam, 
With  battled  walls  and  buttress  fast, 
And  barbican  and  ballium  vast, 
And  airy  flanking  towers  that  cast 

Their  shadows  on  the  stream. 
'T  is  no  deceit !  distinctly  clear 
Crenell  and  parapet  appear, 
While  o'er  the  pile  that  meteor  drear 

Makes  momentary  pause ; 
Then  forth  its  solemn  path  it  drew, 
And  fainter  yet  and  fainter  grew 
Those  gloomy  towers  upon  the  view, 

As  its  wild  light  withdraws. 


Forth  from  the  cave  did  Roland  rush, 
O'er  crag  and  stream,  through  brier  and 
bush ; 
Yet  far  he  had  not  sped 


Ere  sunk  was  that  portentous  light 
Behind  the  hills  and  utter  night 

Was  on  the  valley  spread. 
He  paused  perforce  and  blew  his  horn, 
And,  on  the  mountain-echoes  borne, 

Was  heard  an  answering  sound, 
A  wild  and  lonely  trumpet  note,  — 
In  middle  air  it  seemed  to  float 

High  o'er  the  battled  mound  ; 
And  sounds  were  heard  as  when  a  guard 
Of  some  proud  castle,  holding  ward, 

Pace  forth  their  nightly  round. 
The  valiant  Knight  of  Triermain 
Rung  forth  his  challenge-blast  again, ' 

But  answer  came  there  none  ; 
And  mid  the  mingled  wind  and  rain 
Darkling  he  sought  the  vale  in  vain, 

Until  the  dawning  shone  ; 
And  when  it  dawned  that  wondrous  sight 
Distinctly  seen  by  meteor  light, 

It  all  had  passed  away ! 
And  that  enchanted  mount  once  more 
A  pile  of  granite  fragments  bore 

As  at  the  close  of  day. 

XI. 

Steeled  for  the  deed,  De  Vaux's  heart 
Scorned  from  his  vent'rous  quest  to  part, 

He  walks  the  vale  once  more  ; 
But  only  sees  by  night  or  day 
That  shattered  pile  of  rocks  so  gray, 

Hears  but  the  torrent's  roar  : 
Till  when,  through  hills  of  azure  borne, 
The  moon  renewed  her  silver  horn, 
Just  at  the  time  her  waning  ray 
Had  faded  in  the  dawning  day 

A  summer  mist  arose  ; 
Adown  the  vale  the  vapors  float, 
And  cloudy  undulations  moat 
That  tufted  mound  of  mystic  note, 

As  round  its  base  they  close. 
And  higher  now  the  fleecy  tide 
Ascends  its  stern  and  shaggy  side, 
Until  the  airy  billows  hide 

The  rock's  majestic  isle  : 
It  seemed  a  veil  of  filmy  lawn, 
By  some  fantastic  fairy  drawn 

Around  enchanted  pile. 

XII. 

The  breeze  came  softly  down  the  brook, 

And,  sighing  as  it  blew, 
The  veil  of  silver  mist  it  shook 
And  to  De  Vaux's  eager  look 

Renewed  that  wondrous  view. 
For,  though  the  loitering  vapor  braved 
The  gentle  breeze,  yet  oft  it  waved 

Its  mantle's  dewy  fold  ; 
And  still  when  shook  that  filmy  screen 
Were  towers  and  bastions  dimly  seen, 


THE  BRIDAL   OF   TRIERMAIN. 


357 


And  Gothic  battlements  between 

Their  gloomy  length  unrolled. 
Speed,  speed,  De  Vaux,  ere  on  thine  eye 
Once  more  the  fleeting  vision  die  !  — 

The  gallant  knight  'gan  speed 
As  prompt  and  light  as,  when  the  hound 
Is  opening  and  the  horn  is  wound, 

Careers  the  hunter's  steed. 
Down  the  steep  dell  his  course  amain 

Hath  rivalled  archer's  shaft ; 
But  ere  the  mound  he  could  attain 
The  rocks  their  shapeless  form  regain, 
And,  mocking  loud  his  labor  vain, 

The  mountain  spirits  laughed. 
Far  up  the  echoing  dell  was  borne 
Their  wild  unearthly  shout  of  scorn. 

XIII. 

Wroth  waxed  the  warrior.  —  '  Am  I  then 
Fooled  by  the  enemies  of  men, 
Like  a  poor  hind  whose  homeward  way 
Is  haunted  by  malicious  fay? 


Is  Triermain  become  your  taunt, 

De  Vaux  your  scorn  ?  False  fiends,  avaunt ! ' 

A  weighty  curtal-axe  he  bare  ; 

The  baleful  blade  so  bright  and  square, 

And  the  tough  shaft  of  heben  wood, 

Were  oft  in  Scottish  gore  imbrued. 

Backward  his  stately  form  he  drew, 

And  at  the  rocks  the  weapon  threw 

Just  where  one  crag's  projected  crest 

Hung  proudly  balanced  o'er  the  rest. 

Hurled  with  main  force  the  weapon's  shock 

Rent  a  huge  fragment  of  the  rock. 

If  by  mere  strength,  't  were  hard  to  tell, 

Or  if  the  blow  dissolved  some  spell, 

But  down  the  headlong  ruin  came 

With  cloud  of  dust  and  flash  of  flame. 

Down    bank,   o'er    bush,   its   course  was 

borne, 
Crushed  lay  the  copse,  the  earth  was  torn, 
Till  staid  at  length  the  ruin  dread 
Cumbered  the  torrent's  rocky  bed, 
And  bade  the  waters'  high-swoln  tide 
Seek  other  passage  for  its  pride. 


358 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL   WORKS. 


When  ceased  that  thunder  Triermain 
Surveyed  the  mound's  rude  front  again  ; 
And  lo !  the  ruin  had  laid  bare, 
Hewn  in  the  stone,  a  winding  stair 
Whose  mossed  and  fractured  steps  might 

lend 
The  means  the  summit  to  ascend  ; 
And  by  whose  aid  the  brave  De  Vaux 
Began  to  scale  these  magic  rocks, 

And  soon  a  platform  won 
Where,  the  wild  witchery  to  close, 
Within  three  lances'  length  arose 

The  Castle  of  Saint  John  ! 
No  misty  phantom  of  the  air, 
No  meteor-blazoned  show  was  there ; 
In  morning  splendor  full  and  fair 

The  massive  fortress  shone. 


xv. 

Embattled  high  and  proudly  towered, 
Shaded  by  ponderous  flankers,  lowered 

The  portal's  gloomy  way. 
Though  for  six  hundred  years  and  more 
Its   strength   had    brooked   the   tempest's 

roar, 
The  scutcheoned  emblems  which  it  bore 

Had  suffered  no  decay: 
But  from  the  eastern  battlement 
A  turret  had  made  sheer  descent, 
And,  down  in  recent  ruin  rent, 

In  the  mid  torrent  lay. 
Else,  o'er  the  castle's  brow  sublime, 
Insults  of  violence  or  of  time 

Unfelt  had  passed  away. 
In  shapeless  characters  of  yore, 
The  gate  this  stern  inscription  bore : 


inscription. 

1  Patience  waits  the  destined  day, 
Strength  can  clear  the  cumbered  way. 
Warrior,  who  hast  waited  long, 
Firm  of  soul,  of  sinew  strong, 
It  is  given  to  thee  to  gaze 
On  the  pile  of  ancient  days. 
Never  mortal  builder's  hand 
This  enduring  fabric  planned  ; 
Sign  and  sigil,  word  of  power, 
From  the  earth  raised  keep  and  tower. 
View  it  o'er  and  pace  it  round, 
Rampart,  turret,  battled  mound. 
Dare  no  more  !     To  cross  the  gate 
Were  to  tamper  with  thy  fate  ; 
Strength  and  fortitude  were  vain, 
View  it  o'er  —  and  turn  again.' 


XVII. 

'  That  would  I,'  said  the  warrior  bold, 
'  If  that  my  frame  were  bent  and  old, 
And  my  thin  blood  dropped  slow  and  cold 

As  icicle  in  thaw; 
But  while  my  heart  can  feel  it  dance 
Blithe  as  the  sparkling  wine  of  France, 
And  this  good  arm  wields  sword  or  lance, 

I  mock  these  words  of  awe  ! ' 
He  said ;  the  wicket  felt  the  sway 
Of    his    strong    hand    and    straight   gave 

way, 
And  with  rude  crash  and  jarring  bray 

The  rusty  bolts  withdraw ; 
But  o'er  the  threshold  as  he  strode 
And  forward  took  the  vaulted  road, 
An  unseen  arm  with  force  amain 
The  ponderous  gate  flung  close  again, 

And  rusted  bolt  and  bar 
Spontaneous  took  their  place  once  more 
While  the  deep  arch  with  sullen  roar 

Returned  their  surly  jar. 
'Now  closed  is  the  gin  and  the  prey  within, 

By  the  Rood  of  Lanercost ! 
But  he  that  would  win  the  war-wolf's  skin 

May  rue  him  of  his. boast.' 
Thus  muttering  on  the  warrior  went 
By  dubious  light  down  steep  descent. 


XVIII. 

Unbarred,  unlocked,  unwatched,  a  port 
Led  to  the  castle's  outer  court : 
There  the  main  fortress,  broad  and  tall, 
Spread  its  long  range  of  bower  and  hall 

And  towers  of  varied  size, 
Wrought  with  each  ornament  extreme 
That  Gothic  art  in  wildest  dream 

Of  fancy  could  devise ; 
But  full  between  the  warrior's  way 
And  the  main  portal  arch  there  lay 
An  inner  moat ; 
Nor  bridge  nor  boat 
Affords  De  Vaux  the  means  to  cross 
The  clear,  profound,  and  silent  fosse. 
His  arms  aside  in  haste  he  flings, 
Cuirass  of  steel  and  hauberk  rings, 
And  down  falls  helm  and  down  the  shield, 
Rough  with  the  dints  of  many  a  field. 
Fair  was  his  manly  form  and  fair 
His  keen  dark  eye  and  close  curled  hair, 
When  all  unarmed  save  that  the  brand 
Of  well-proved  metal  graced  his  hand, 
With  naught  to  fence  his  dauntless  breast 
But  the  close  gipon's  under-vest, 
Whose  sullied  buff  the  sable  stains 
Of  hauberk  and  of  mail  retains,  — 
Roland  De  Vaux  upon  the  brim 
Of  the  broad  moat  stood  prompt  to  swim. 


THE  BRIDAL    OF  TRIERMAIN. 


359 


Accoutred  thus  he  dared  the  tide, 
And  soon  he  reached  the  farther  side 

And  entered  soon  the  hold, 
And  paced  a  hall  whose  walls  so  wide 
Were  blazoned  all  with  feats  of  pride 

By  warriors  done  of  old. 
In  middle  lists  they  countered  here 

While  trumpets  seemed  to  blow  ; 
And  there  in  den  or  desert  drear 

They  quelled  gigantic  foe, 
Braved  the  fierce  griffon  in  his  ire, 
Or  faced  the  dragon's  breath  of  fire. 
Strange  in  their  arms  and  strange  in  face, 
Heroes  they  seemed  of  ancient  race, 
Whose  deeds  of  arms  and  race  and  name, 
Forgotten  long  by  later  fame, 

Were  here  depicted  to  appall 
Those  of  an  age  degenerate 
Whose  bold  intrusion  braved  their  fate 

In  this  enchanted  hall. 
For  some  short  space  the  venturous  knight 
With  these  high  marvels  fed  his  sight, 
Then  sought  the  chamber's  upper  end 
Where  three  broad  easy  steps  ascend 

To  an  arched  portal  door, 
In  whose  broad  folding  leaves  of  state 
Was  framed  a  wicket  window-grate ; 

And  ere  he  ventured  more, 
The  gallant  knight  took  earnest  view 
The  grated  wicket-window  through. 

xx. 

O,  for  his  arms  !  Of  martial  weed 
Had  never  mortal  knight  such  need  !  — 
He  spied  a  stately  gallery  ;  all 
Of  snow-white  marble  was  the  wall, 

The  vaulting,  and  the  floor  ; 
And,  contrast  strange  !  on  either  hand 
There  stood  arrayed  in  sable  band 

Four  maids  whom  Afric  bore  ; 
And  each  a  Lybian  tiger  led, 
Held  by  as  bright  and  frail  a  thread 

As  Lucy's  golden  hair, 
For  the  leash  that  bound  these  monsters 
dread 

Was  but  of  gossamer. 
Each  maiden's  short  barbaric  vest 
Left  all  unclosed  the  knee  and  breast 

And  limbs  of  shapely  jet ; 
White  was  their  vest  and  turban's  fold, 
On  arms  and  ankles  rings  of  gold 

In  savage  pomp  were  set ; 
A  quiver  on  their  shoulders  lay, 
And  in  their  hand  an  assagay. 
Such  and  so  silent  stood  they  there 

That  Roland  wellnigh  hoped 
He  saw  a  band  of  statues  rare, 
Stationed  the  gazer's  soul  to  scare ; 


But  when  the  wicket  oped 
Each  grisly  beast  'gan  upward  draw, 
Rolled  his  grim  eye,  and  spread  his  claw, 
Scented  the  air,  and  licked  his  jaw ; 
While  these  weird  maids  in  Moorish  tongue 
A  wild  and  dismal  warning  sung. 

XXI. 

'  Rash  adventurer,  bear  thee  back ! 

Dread  the  spell  of  Dahomay  ! 
Fear  the  race  of  Zaharak  ; 

Daughters  of  the  burning  day  ! 

'  When  the  whirlwind's  gusts  are  wheeling, 

Ours  it  is  the  dance  to  braid ; 
Zarah's  sands  in  pillars  reeling 

Join  the  measure  that  we  tread, 
When  the  Moon  has  donned  her  cloak 

And  the  stars  are  red  to  see, 
Shrill  when  pipes  the  sad  Siroc, 

Music  meet  for  such  as  we. 

'Where  the  shattered  columns  lie, 

Showing  Carthage  once  had  been, 
If  the  wandering  San  ton's  eye 

Our  mysterious  rites  hath  seen,  — 
Oft  he  cons  the  prayer  of  death, 

To  the  nations  preaches  doom, 
"  Azrael's  brand  hath  left  the  sheath  ! 

Moslems,  think  upon  the  tomb  !  " 

'  Ours  the  scorpion,  ours  the  snake, 

Ours  the  hydra  of  the  fen, 
Ours  the  tiger  of  the  brake, 

All  that  plague  the  sons  of  men. 
Ours  the  tempest's  midnight  wrack, 

Pestilence  that  wastes  by  day  — 
Dread  the  race  of  Zaharak ! 

Fear  the  spell  of  Dahomay ! ' 

XXII. 

Uncouth  and  strange  the  accents  shrill 

Rung  those  vaulted  roofs  among, 
Long  it  was  ere  faint  and  still 

Died  the  far-resounding  song. 
While  yet  the  distant  echoes  roll, 
The  warrior  communed  with  his  soul. 
1  When  first  I  took  this  venturous  quest. 
I  swore  upon  the  rood 
Neither  to  stop  nor  turn  nor  rest. 

For  evil  or  for  good. 
My  forward  path  too  well  I  ween 
Lies  yonder  fearful  ranks  between  j 
For  man  unarmed  't  is  bootless  hope 
With  tigers  and  with  fiends  to  cope  — 
Yet,  if  I  turn,  what  waits  me  there 
Save  famine  dire  and  fell  despair  ?  — 
Other  conclusion  let  me  try, 
Since,  choose  howe'er  I  list,  I  die. 


360 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL   WORKS. 


Forward  lies  faith  and  knightly  fame : 
Behind  are  perjury  and  shame. 
In  life  or  death  I  hold  my  word  ! ' 
With  that  he  drew  his  trusty  sword, 
Caught  down  a  banner  from  the  wall, 
And  entered  thus  the  fearful  hall. 

XXIII. 

On  high  each  wayward  maiden  threw 
Her  swarthy  arm  with  wild  halloo  ! 
On  either  side  a  tiger  sprung  — 
Against  the  leftward  foe  he  flung 
The  ready  banner  to  engage 
With  tangling  folds  the  brutal  rage; 
The  right-hand  monster  in  mid  air 
He  struck  so  fiercely  and  so  fair 
Through  gullet  and  through  spinal  bone 
The  trenchant  blade  hath  sheerly  gone. 
His  grisly  brethren  ramped  and  yelled, 
But  the  slight  leash  their  rage  withheld. 
Whilst  'twixt  their  ranks  the  dangerous  road 
Firmly  though  swift  the  champion  strode. 
Safe  to  the  gallery's  bound  he  drew, 
Safe  passed  an  open  portal  through ; 
And  when  against  pursuit  he  flung 
The  gate,  judge  if  the  echoes  rung ! 
Onward  his  daring  course  he  bore, 
While,  mixed  with  dying  growl  and  roar, 
Wild  jubilee  and  loud  hurra 
Pursued  him  on  his  venturous  way. 

XXIV. 

1  Hurra,  hurra  !  Our  watch  is  done  ! 
We  hail  once  more  the  tropic  sun. 
Pallid  beams  of  northern  day, 
Farewell,  farewell !  Hurra,  hurra  ! 

•  Five  hundred  years  o'er  this  cold  glen 
Hath  the  pale  sun  come  round  agen : 
Foot  of  man  till  now  hath  ne'er 
Dared  to  cross  the  Hall  of  Fear. 

'  Warrior  !  thou  whose  dauntless  heart 
Gives  us  from  our  ward  to  part, 
Be  as  strong  in  future  trial 
Where  resistance  is  denial. 

'  Now  for  Afric's  glowing  sky, 
Zwenga  wide  and  Atlas  high, 
Zaharak  and  Dahomay  !  — 
Mount  the  winds  !  Hurra,  hurra! ' 

XXV. 

The  wizard  song  at  distance  died, 

As  if  in  ether  borne  astray, 
While  through  waste  halls  and  chambers 
wide 

The  knight  pursued  his  steady  way 
Till  to  a  lofty  dome  he  came 
That  flashed  with  such  a  brilliant  flame 


As  if  the  wealth  of  all  the  world 
Were  there  in  rich  confusion  hurled. 
For  here  the  gold  in  sandy  heaps 
With  duller  earth  incorporate  sleeps  : 
Was  there  in  ingots  piled,  and  there 
Coined  badge  of  empery  it  bare  ; 
Yonder,  huge  bars  of  silver  lay, 
Dimmed  by  the  diamond's  neighboring  rayr 
Like  the  pale  moon  in  morning  day ; 
And  in  the  midst  four  maidens  stand, 
The  daughters  of  some  distant  land. 
Their  hue  was  of  the  dark-red  dye 
That  fringes  oft  a  thunder  sky ; 
Their  hands  palmetto  baskets  bare, 
And  cotton  fillets  bound  their  hair ; 
Slim  was  their  form,  their  mien  was  shy. 
To  earth  they  bent  the  humbled  eye, 
Folded  their  arms,  and  suppliant  kneeled. 
And  thus  their  proffered  gifts  revealed. 

XXVI. 
CHORUS. 

'  See  the  treasures  Merlin  piled, 
Portion  meet  for  Arthur's  child. 
Bathe  in  Wealth's  unbounded  stream, 
Wealth  that  Avarice  ne'er  could  dream  ! r 

FIRST   MAIDEN. 

*  See  these  clots  of  virgin  gold  ! 
Severed  from  the  sparry  mould, 
Nature's  mystic  alchemy 
In  the  mine  thus  bade  them  lie  ; 
And  their  orient  smile  can  win 
Kings  to  stoop  and  saints  to  sin.' 

SECOND   MAIDEN. 

'  See  these  pearls  that  long  have  slept ; 
These  were  tears  by  Naiads  wept 
For  the  loss  of  Marinel. 
Tritons  in  the  silver  shell 
Treasured  them  till  hard  and  white 
As  the  teeth  of  Amphitrite.' 

THIRD   MAIDEN. 

'  Does  a  livelier  hue  delight  ? 
Here  are  rubies  blazing  bright, 
Here  the  emerald's  fairy  green, 
And  the  topaz  glows  between; 
Here  their  varied  hues  unite 
In  the  changeful  chrysolite.' 

FOURTH    MAIDEN. 

1  Leave  these  gems  of  poorer  shine, 
Leave  them  all  and  look  on  mine  ! 
While  their  glories  I  expand 
Shade  thine  eyebrows  with  thy  hand. 
Mid-day  sun  and  diamond's  blaze 
Blind  the  rash  beholder's  gaze.* 


THJi  BRIDAL   OF  TR1ERMAIN. 


36l 


CHORUS. 

1  Warrior,  seize  the  splendid  store  ; 
Would  't  were  all  our  mountains  bore  ! 
We  should  ne'er  in  future  story 
Read,  Peru,  thy  perished  glory  ! ' 

XXVII. 

Calmly  and  unconcerned  the  knight 
Waved  aside  the  treasures  bright  — 
4  Gentle  Maidens,  rise,  I  pray  ! 
Bar  not  thus  my  destined  way. 
Let  these  boasted  brilliant  toys 
Braid  the  hair  of  girls  and  boys  ! 


When,  lo !  a  plashing  sound  he  hears, 
A  gladsome  signal  that  he  nears 

Some  frolic  water-run  : 
And  soon  he  reached  a  courtyard  square 
Where,  dancing  in  the  sultry  air, 
Tossed  high  aloft  a  fountain  fair 

Was  sparkling  in  the  sun. 
On  right  and  left  a  fair  arcade 
In  long  perspective  view  displayed 
Alleys  and  bowers  for  sun  or  shade  : 

But  full  in  front  a  door, 


Bid  your  streams  of  gold  expand 
O'er  proud  London's  thirsty  land. 
De  Vaux  of  wealth  saw  never  need 
Save  to  purvey  him  arms  and  steed, 
And  all  the  ore  he  deigned  to  hoard 
Inlays  his  helm  and  hilts  his  sword.' 
Thus  gently  parting  from  their  hold, 
He  left  unmoved  the  dome  of  gold. 

XXVIII. 

And  now  the  morning  sun  was  high, 
De  Vaux  was  weary,  faint,  and  dry ; 


Low-browed  and  dark,  seemed  as  it  led 
To  the  lone  dwelling  of  the  dead 
Whose  memory  was  no  more. 

XXIX. 

Here  stopped  De  Vaux  an  instant's  space 
To  bathe  his  parched  lips  and  face, 

And  marked  with  well-pleased  eye, 
Refracted  on  the  fountain  stream, 
In  rainbow  hues  the  dazzling  beam 

Of  that  gay  summer  sky. 
His  senses  felt  a  mild  control, 
Like  that  which  lulls  the  weary  soul, 

From  contemplation  high 


362 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL    WORKS. 


Relaxing,  when  the  ear  receives 
The  music  that  the  greenwood  leaves 
Make  to  the  breezes'  sigh. 

XXX. 

And  oft  in  such  a  dreamy  mood 

The  half-shut  eye  can  frame 
Fair  apparitions  in  the  wood, 
As  if  the  Nymphs  of  field  and  flood 

In  gay  procession  came. 
Are  these  of  such  fantastic  mould, 

Seen  distant  down  the  fair  arcade, 
These  maids  enlinked  in  sister-fold, 

Who,  late  at  bashful  distance  staid,  . 

Now  tripping  from  the  greenwood  shade, 
Nearer  the  musing  champion  draw, 
And  in  a  pause  of  seeming  awe 

Again  stand  doubtful  now  ?  — 
Ah,  that  sly  pause  of  witching  powers  ! 
That  seems  to  say,  '  To  please  be  ours. 

Be  yours  to  tell  us  how.' 
Their  hue  was  of  the  golden  glow 
That  suns  of  Candahar  bestow, 
O'er  which  in  slight  suffusion  flows 
A  frequent  tinge  of  paly  rose ; 
Their  limbs  were  fashioned  fair  and  free 
In  nature's  justest  symmetry; 
And,   wreathed  with  flowers,   with   odors 

graced, 
Their  raven  ringlets  reached  the  waist : 
In  eastern  pomp  its  gilding  pale 
The  henna  lent  each  shapely  nail, 
And  the  dark  sumah  gave  the  eye 
More  liquid  and  more  lustrous  dye. 
The  spotless  veil  of  misty  lawn, 
In  studied  disarrangement  drawn 

The  form  and  bosom  o'er, 
To  win  the  eye  or  tempt  the  touch, 
For  modesty  showed  all  too  much  — 

Too  much  —  yet  promised  more. 

XXXI. 

'  Gentle  knight,  awhile  delay,' 
Thus  they  sung,  <  thy  toilsome  way, 
While  we  pay  the  duty  due 
To  our  Master  and  to  you. 
Over  Avarice,  over  Fear, 
Love  triumphant  led  thee  here ; 
Warrior,  list  to  us,  for  we 
Are  slaves  to  Love,  are  friends  to  thee. 
Though  no  treasured  gems  have  we 
To  proffer  on  the  bended  knee, 
Though  we  boast  nor  arm  nor  heart 
For  the  assagay  or  dart, 
Swains  allow  each  simple  girl 
Ruby  lip  and  teeth  of  pearl ; 
Or,  if  dangers  more  you  prize, 
Flatterers  find  them  in  our  eyes. 

1  Stay,  then,  gentle  warrior,  stay. 
Rest  till  evening  steal  on  day  ; 


Stay,  O,  stay  !  —  in  yonder  bowers 
We  will  braid  thy  locks  with  flowers, 
Spread  the  feast  and  fill  the  wine, 
Gharm  thy  ear  with  sounds  divine, 
Weave  our  dances  till  delight 
Yield  to  languor,  day  to  night. 
Then  shall  she  you  most  approve 
Sing  the  lays  that  best  you  love, 
Soft  thy  mossy  couch  shall  spread, 
Watch  thy  pillow,  prop  thy  head, 
Till  the  weary  night  be  o'er  — 
Gentle  warrior,  wouldst  thou  more. 
Wouldst  thou  more,  fair  warrior,  — she 
Is  slave  to  Love  and  slave  to  thee.' 

XXXII. 

O,  do  not  hold  it  for  a  crime 
In  the  bold  hero  of  my  rhyme, 

For  Stoic  look 

And  meet  rebuke 
He  lacked  the  heart  or  time  ; 
As  round  the  band  of  sirens  trip, 
He  kissed  one  damsel's  laughing  lip, 
And  pressed  another's  proffered  hand, 
Spoke  to  them  all  in  accents  bland, 
But  broke  their  magic  circle  through  ; 
1  Kind  maids,'  he  said,  '  adieu,  adieu  ! 
My  fate,  my  fortune,  forward  lies.' 
He  said  and  vanished  from  their  eyes  ; 
But,  as  he  dared  that  darksome  way, 
Still  heard  behind  their  lovely  lay  : 
'  Fair  Flower  of  Courtesy,  depart  ! 
Go  where  the  feelings  of  the  heart 
With  the  warm  pulse  in  concord  move ; 
Go  where  Virtue  sanctions  Love  ! ' 

xxxm. 
Downward  De  Vaux  through  darksome 
ways 
And  ruined  vaults  has  gone, 
Till  issue  from  their  wildered  maze 

Or  safe  retreat  seemed  none, 
And  e'en  the  dismal  path  he  strays 
Grew  worse  as  he  went  on. 
For  cheerful  sun,  for  living  air, 
Foul  vapors  rise  and  mine-fires  glare, 
Whose  fearful  light  the  dangers  showed 
That  dogged  him  on  that  dreadful  road. 
Deep  pits  and  lakes  of  waters  dun 
They  showed,  but  showed  not  how  to  shun. 
These  scenes  of  desolate  despair, 
These  smothering  clouds  of  poisoned  air. 
How  gladly  had  De  Vaux  exchanged, 
Though  't  were  to  face  yon  tigers  ranged  ! 

Nay,  soothful  bards  have  said, 
So  perilous  his  state  seemed  now 
He  wished  him  under  arbor  bough 

With  ^Asia's  willing  maid. 
When,  joyful  sound  !  at  distance  near 
A  trumpet  flourished  loud  and  clear, 


THE  BRIDAL    OF   TRIERMAIN 


363 


And  as  it  ceased  a  lofty  lay 

Seemed  thus  to  chide  his  lagging  way. 

xxxiv. 
1  Son  of  Honor,  theme  of  story, 
Think  on  the  reward  before  ye  ! 
Danger,  darkness,  toil  despise  ; 
T  is  Ambition  bids  thee  rise. 

*  He  that  would  her  heights  ascend, 
Many  a  weary  step  must  wend ; 
Hand  and  foot  and  knee  he  tries  ; 
Thus  Ambition's  minions  rise. 

1  Lag  not  now,  though  rough  the  way, 
Fortune's  mood  brooks  no  delay  ; 
Grasp  the  boon  that 's  spread  before  ye, 
Monarch's  power  and  Conqueror's  glory  ! ' 

It  ceased.     Advancing  on  the  sound, 
A  steep  ascent  the  wanderer  found, 

And  then  a  turret  stair  : 
Nor  climbed  he  far  its  steepy  round 

Till  fresher  blew  the  air, 
And  next  a  welcome  glimpse  was  given 
That  cheered  him  with  the  light  of  heaven. 

At  length  his  toil  had  won 
A  lofty  hall  with  trophies  dressed, 
Where  as  to  greet  imperial  guest 
Four  maidens  stood  whose  crimson  vest 

Was  bound  with  golden  zone. 

XXXV. 

Of  Europe  seemed  the  damsels  all ; 
The  first  a  nymph  of  lively  Gaul 
Whose  easy  step  and  laughing  eye 
Her  borrowed  air  of  awe  belie  ; 

The  next  a  maid  of  Spain, 
Dark-eyed,  dark-haired,  sedate  yet  bold  ; 
White  ivory  skin  and  tress  of  gold 
Her  shy  and  bashful  comrade  told 

For  daughter  of  Almaine. 
These  maidens  bore  a  royal  robe, 
With  crown,  with  sceptre,  and  with  globe, 

Emblems  of  empery ; 
The  fourth  a  space  behind  them  stood, 
And  leant  upon  a  harp  in  mood 

Of  minstrel  ecstasy. 
Of  merry  England  she,  in  dress 
Like  ancient  British  Druidess, 
Her  hair  an  azure  fillet  bound, 
Her  graceful  vesture  swept  the  ground, 

And  in  her  hand  displayed 
A  crown  did  that  fourth  maiden  hold, 
But  unadorned  with  gems  and  gold, 

Of  glossy  laurel  made. 

xxxvi. 
At  once  to  brave  De  Vaux  knelt  down 

These  foremost  maidens  three, 
And  proffered  sceptre,  robe,  and  crown, 


Liegedom  and  seignorie 
O'er  many  a  region  wide  and  fair, 
Destined,  they  said,  for  Arthur's  heir  ; 

But  homage  would  he  none  :  — 
'  Rather,'  he  said,  '  De  Vaux  would  ride, 
A  warden  of  the  Border^side 
In  plate  and  mail  than,  robed  in  pride, 

A  monarch's  empire  own  ; 
Rather,  far  rather,  would  he  be 
A  free-born  knight  of  England  free 

Than  sit  on  despot's  throne.' 
So  passed  he  on,  when  that  fourth  maid, 

As  starting  from  a  trance, 
Upon  the  harp  her  finger  laid  ; 
Her  magic  touch  the  chords  obeyed, 

Their  soul  awaked  at  once  ! 

Song  of  ttye  Jourtl)  lEaioen. 

1  Quake  to  your  foundations  deep, 
Stately  towers,  and  bannered  keep, 
Bid  your  vaulted  echoes  moan, 
As  the  dreaded  step  they  own. 

1  Fiends,  that  wait  on  Merlin's  spell, 
Hear  the  foot-fall !  mark  it  well ! 
Spread  your  dusky  wings  abroad, 
Boune  ye  for  your  homeward  road  ! 

'  It  is  His,  the  first  who  e'er 
Dared  the  dismal  Hall  of  Fear  ; 
His,  who  hath  the  snares  defied 
Spread  by  Pleasure,  Wealth,  and  Pride. 

'  Quake  to  your  foundations  deep, 
Bastion  huge,  and  turret  steep  ! 
Tremble,  keep  !  and  totter,  tower  ! 
This  is  Gyneth's  waking  hour.' 

xxxvu. 

Thus  while  she  sung  the  venturous  knight 
Has  reached  a  bower  where  milder  light 

Through  crimson  curtains  fell ; 
Such  softened  shade  the  hill  receives, 
Her  purple  veil  when  twilight  leaves 

Upon  its  western  swell. 
That  bower,  the  gazer  to  bewitch, 
Had  wondrous  store  of  rare  and  rich 

As  e'er  was  seen  with  eye ; 
J  or  there  by  magic  skill,  I  wis, 
Form  of  each  thing  that  living  is 

Was  limned  in  proper  dye. 
All  seemed  to  sleep  —  the  timid  hare 
On  form,  the  stag  upon  his  lair, 
The  eagle  in  her  eyrie  fair 

Between  the  earth  and  sky. 
But  what  of  pictured  rich  and  rare 
Could  win  De  Vaux's  eye-glance,  where, 
Deep  slumbering  in  the  fatal  chair, 

He  saw  King  Arthur's  child ! 
Doubt  and  anger  and  dismay 
From  her  brow  had  passed  away, 


3^4 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL   WORKS. 


Forgot  was  that  fell  tourney-day, 

For  as  she  slept  she  smiled  : 
It  seemed  that  the  repentant  Seer 
Her  sleep  of  many  a  hundred  year 

With  gentle  dreams  beguiled. 

XXXVIII. 

That  form  of  maiden  loveliness, 

'Twixt  childhood  and  'twixt  youth, 
That  ivory  chair,  that  sylvan  dress. 
The  arms  and  ankles  bare,  express 

Of  Lyulph's  tale  the  truth. 
Still  upon  her  garment's  hem 
Vanoc's  blood  made  purple  gem, 
And  the  warder  of  command 
Cumbered  still  her  sleeping  hand ; 
Still  her  dark  locks  dishevelled  flow 
From  net  of  pearl  o'er  breast  of  snow ; 
And  so  fair  the  slumberer  seems 
That  De  Vaux  impeached  his  dreams, 
Vapid  all  and  void  of  might, 
Hiding  half  her  charms  from  sight. 
Motionless  awhile  he  stands, 
Folds  his  arms  and  clasps  his  hands, 
Trembling  in  his  fitful  joy, 
Doubtful  how  he  should  destroy 

Long-enduring  spell ; 
Doubtful  too,  when  slowly  rise 
Dark-fringed  lids  of  Gyneth's  eyes, 

What  these  eyes  shall  tell.  — 
1  Saint  George  !  Saint  Mary !  can  it  be 
That  they  will  kindly  look  on  me  ! ' 

xxxix. 

Gently,  lo  !  the  warrior  kneels, 
Soft  that  lovely  hand  he  steals, 
Soft  to  kiss  and  soft  to  clasp  — 
But  the  warder  leaves  her  grasp; 

Lightning  flashes,  rolls  the  thunder  ! 
Gyneth  startles  from  her  sleep, 
Totters  tower,  and  trembles  keep, 

Burst  the  castle-walls  asunder! 
Fierce  and  frequent  were  the  shocks,  — 

Melt  the  magic  halls  away:  — 
But  beneath  their  mystic  rocks, 
In  the  arms  of  bold  De  Vaux 

Safe  the  princess  lay  ; 
Safe  and  free  from  magic  power, 
Blushing  like  the  rose's  flower 

Opening  to  the  day; 
And    round    the   champion's    brows   were 

bound 
The  crown  that  Druidess  had  wound 

Of  the  green  laurel-bay. 
And  this  was  what  remained  of  all 
The  wealth  of  each  enchanted  hall, 

The  Garland  and  the  Dame  : 
But  where  should  warrior  seek  the  meed 
Due  to  high  worth  for  daring  deed 

Except  from  Love  and  Fame  ! 


&Jje  2Srioal  of  Crfermam. 
CONCLUSION. 


My  Lucy,  when  the  maid  is  won 

The  minstrel's  task,  thou  know'st,  is  done  : 

And  to  require  of  bard 
That  to  his  dregs  the  tale  should  run 

Were  ordinance  too  hard. 
Our  lovers,  briefly  be  it  said, 
Wedded  as  lovers  wont  to  wed, 

When  tale  or  play  is  o'er ; 
Lived  long  and  blest,  loved  fond  and  true. 
And  saw  a  numerous  race  renew 

The  honors  that  they  bore. 
Know  too  that  when  a  pilgrim  strays 
In  morning  mist  or  evening  maze 

Along  the  mountain  lone, 
That  fairy  fortress  often  mocks 
His  gaze  upon  the  castled  rocks 

Of  the  valley  of  Saint  John ; 
But  never  man  since  brave  De  Vaux 

The  charmed  portal  won. 
'T  is  now  a  vain  illusive  show 
That  melts  whene'er  the  sunbeams  glow, 

Or  the  fresh  breeze  hath  blown. 


But  see,  my  love,  where  far  below 
Our  lingering  wheels  are  moving  slow. 

The  whiles,  up-gazing  still, 
Our  menials  eye  our  steepy  way, 
Marvelling  perchance  what  whim  can  stay 
Our  steps  when  eve  is  sinking  gray 

On  this  gigantic  hill. 
So  think  the  vulgar  —  Life  and  time 
Ring  all  their  joys  in  one  dull  chime 

Of  luxury  and  ease ; 
And  O,  beside  these  simple  knaves, 
How  many  better  born  are  slaves 

To  such  coarse  joys  as  these, 
Dead  to  the  nobler  sense  that  glows 
When  nature's  grander  scenes  unclose  I 
But,  Lucy,  we  will  love  them  yet, 
The  mountain's  misty  coronet, 

The  greenwood  and  the  wold ; 
And  love  the  more  that  of  their  maze 
Adventure  high  of  other  days 

By  ancient  bards  is  told, 
Bringing  perchance,  like  my  poor  tale, 
Some  moral  truth  in  fiction's  veil : 
Nor  love  them  less  that  o'er  the  hill 
The  evening  breeze  as  now  comes  chill ;  — 

My  love  shall  wrap  her  warm, 
And,  fearless  of  the  slippery  way 
While  safe  she  trips  the  heathy  brae, 

Shall  hang  on  Arthur's  arm. 


Ci)e  iLorti  of  ti)e  J sles 

A   POEM   IN   SIX   CANTOS. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 

The  Scene  of  this  Poem  lies,  at  first,  in  the  Castle  of  Artornish,  on  the  coast  of  Argyleshire ;  and,  afterwards,  in  the 
Islands  of  Skye  and  Arran,  and  upon  the  coast  of  Ayrshire.  Finally,  it  is  laid  near  Stirling.  The  story  opens  in  the 
spring  of  the  year  1307,  when  Bruce,  who  had  been  driven  out  of  Scotland  by  the  English,  and  the  Barons  who  adhered 
to  that  foreign  interest,  returned  from  the  Island  of  Rachrin  on  the  coast  of  Ireland,  again  to  assert  his  claims  to  the 
Scottish  crown.  Many  of  the  personages  and  incidents  introduced  are  of  historical  celebrity.  The  authorities  used  are 
chiefly  those  of  the  venerable  Lord  Hailes,  as  Well  entitled  to  be  called  the  restorer  of  Scottish  history,  as  Bruce  the 
restorer  of  Scottish  Monarchy ;  and  of  Archdeacon  Barbour ;  a  correct  edition  of  whose  Metrical  History  of  Robert 
Bruce  will  soon,  I  trust,  appear,  under  the  care  of  my  learned  friend,  the  Rev.  Dr.  Jamieson. 
Abbotsford,  io/A  December,  1814. 


£fje  Horti  of  tfje  Isles. 

CANTO    FIRST. 

Autumn  departs  —  but  still  his  mantle's  fold 
Rests  on  the  groves  of  noble  Somerville, 
Beneath  a  shroud  of  russet  drooped  with  gold 
Tweed  and  his  tributaries  mingle  still ; 
Hoarser  the  wind  and  deeper  sounds  the  rill, 
Yet  lingering  notes  of  sylvan  music  swell, 
The  deep-toned  cushat  and  the  redbreast  shrill; 
And  yet  some  tints  of  summer  splendor  tell 
When  the  broad  sun  sinks  down  on  Ettrick's  western  fell. 

Autumn  departs  —  from  Gala's  fields  no  more 
Come  rural  sounds  our  kindred  banks  to  cheer : 
Blent  with  the  stream  and  gale  that  wafts  it  o'er, 
No  more  the  distant  reaper's  mirth  we  hear. 
The  last  blithe  shout  hath  died  upon  our  ear, 
And  harvest-home  hath  hushed  the  clanging  wain, 
On  the  waste  hill  no  forms  of  life  appear, 
Save  where,  sad  laggard  of  the  autumnal  train, 
Some  age-struck  wanderer  gleans  few  ears  of  scattered  grain. 

Deem'st  thou  these  saddened  scenes  have  pleasure  still, 
Lov'st  thou  through  Autumn's  fading  realms  to  stray, 
To  see  the  heath-flower  withered  on  the  hill, 
To  listen  to  the  woods'  expiring  lay, 
To  note  the  red  leaf  shivering  on  the  spray, 
To  mark  the  last  bright  tints  the  mountain  stain, 
On  the  waste  fields  to  trace  the  gleaner's  way, 
And  moralize  on  mortal  joy  and  pain?  — 
O,  if  such  scenes  thou  lov'st,  scorn  not  the  minstrel  strain ! 


368 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL   WORKS. 


No!  do  not  scorn,  although  its  hoarser  note 
Scarce  with  the  cushat's  homely  song  can  vie, 
Though  faint  its  beauties  as  the  tints  remote 
That  gleam  through  mist  in  autumn's  evening  sky, 
And  few  as  leaves  that  tremble,  sear  and  dry, 
When  wild  November  hath  his  bugle  wound; 
Nor  mock  my  toil  —  a  lonely  gleaner  I 
Through  fields  time-wasted,  on  sad  inquest  bound 
Where  happier  bards  of  yore  have  richer  harvest  found. 

So  shalt  thou  list,  and  haply  not  unmoved, 
To  a  wild  tale  of  Albyn's  warrior  day ; 
In  distant  lands,  by  the  rough  West  reproved, 
Still  live  some  relics  of  the  ancient  lay. 
For,  when  on  Coolin's  hills  the  lights  decay, 
With  such  the  Seer  of  Skye  the  eve  beguiles; 
'T  is  known  amid  the  pathless  wastes  of  Reay, 
In  Harries  known  and  in  Iona's  piles, 
Where  rest  from  mortal  coil  the  Mighty  of  the  Isles. 


THE   LORD    OF  THE   ISLES. 


3<59 


UTfje  3L0ttJ  of  tjje  Isles. 


♦  Wake,   Maid    of    Lorn ! '   the   minstrels 

sung.  — 
Thy  rugged  halls,  Artornish,  rung, 
And  the  dark  seas  thy  towers  that  lave 
Heaved  on  the  beach  a  softer  wave, 
As  mid  the  tuneful  choir  to  keep 
The  diapason  of  the  deep. 


11. 

'  Wake,  Maid  of  Lorn  ! '  —  't  was  thus  they 

sung, 
And  yet  more  proud  the  descant  rung, 
1  Wake,  Maid  of  Lorn !  high  right  is  ours 
To  charm  dull  sleep  from  Beauty's  bowers  : 
Earth,  ocean,  air,  have  naught  so  shy 
But  owns  the  power  of  minstrelsy. 
In  Lettermore  the  timid  deer 
Will  pause  the  harp's  wild  chime  to  hear ; 


Lulled  were  the  winds  on  Inninmore 
And  green  Loch-Alline's  woodland  shore, 
As  if  wild  woods  and  waves  had  pleasure 
In  listing  to  the  lovely  measure. 
And  ne'er  to  symphony  more  sweet 
Gave  mountain  echoes  answer  meet 
Since,  met  from  mainland  and  from  isle, 
Ross,  Arran,  Islay,  and  Argyle, 
Each  minstrel's  tributary  lay 
Paid  homage  to  the  festal  day. 
Dull  and  dishonored  were  the  bard, 
Worthless  of  guerdon  and  regard, 
Deaf  to  the  hope  of  minstrel  fame, 
Or  lady's  smiles,  his  noblest  aim, 
Who  on  that  morn's  resistless  call 
Was  silent  in  Artornish  hall. 


Rude  Heiskar's  seal  through  surges  dark 
Will  long  pursue  the  minstrel's  bark; 
To  list  his  notes  the  eagle  proud 
Will  poise  him  on  Ben-Cailliach's  cloud ; 
Then  let  not  maiden's  ear  disdain 
The  summons  of  the  minstrel  train, 
But  while  our  harps  wild  music  make, 
Edith  of  Lorn,  awake,  awake  ! 

in. 
1  O  wake  while  Dawn  with  dewy  shine 
Wakes  Nature's  charms  to  vie  with  thine  ! 
She  bids  the  mottled  thrush  rejoice 
To  mate  thy  melody  of  voice ; 
The  dew  that  on  the  violet  lies 
Mocks  the  dark  lustre  of  thine  eyes  •, 


24 


I/O 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL    WORKS. 


But,  Edith,  wake,  and  all  we  see 
Of  sweet  and  fair  shall  yield  to  thee  !   — 
'  She  comes  not  yet,'  gray  Ferrand  cried  ; 
1  Brethren,  let  softer  spell  be  tried,    . 
Those  notes  prolonged,  that  soothing  theme, 
Which  best  may  mix  with  Beauty's  dream, 
And  whisper  with  their  silvery  tone 
The  hope  she  loves  yet  fears  to  own.' 
He  spoke,  and  on  the  harp-strings  died 
The  strains  of  flattery  and  of  pride  ; 
More  soft,  more  low,  more  tender  fell 
The  lay  of  love  he  bade  them  tell. 


'  Wake,  Maid  of  Lorn  !  the  moments  fly 

Which  yet  that  maiden-name  allow ; 
Wake,  Maiden,  wake  !  the  hour  is  nigh 

When  love  shall  claim  a  plighted  vow. 
By  Fear,  thy  bosom's  fluttering  guest, 

By  Hope,  that  soon  shall  fears  remove, 
We  bid  thee  break  the  bonds  of  rest, 

And  wake  thee  at  the  call  of  Love  ! 

'  Wake,  Edith,  wake  !  in  yonder  bay- 
Lies  many  a  galley  gayly  manned,     * 

We  hear  the  merry  pibroch's  play, 
We  see  the  streamers'  silken  band. 

What    chieftain's    praise    these    pibrochs 
swell, 
What  crest  is  on  these  banners  wove, 

The  harp,  the  minstrel,  dare  not  tell  — 
The  riddle  must  be  read  by  Love.' 


v. 

Retired  her  maiden  train  among, 

Kdith  of  Lorn  received  the  song, 

But  tamed  the  minstrel's  pride  had  been 

That  had  her  cold  demeanor  seen  ; 

For  not  upon  her  cheek  awoke 

The  glow  of  pride  when  Flattery  spoke, 

Nor  could  their  tenderest  numbers  bring 

One  sigh  responsive  to  the  string. 

Al  vainly  had  her  maidens  vied 

In  skill  to  deck  the  princely  bride. 

Her  locks  in  dark-brown  length  arrayed, 

Cathleen  of  Ulne,  't  was  thine  to  braid  ; 

Young  Eva  with  meet  reverence  drew 

( )n  the  light  foot  the  silken  shoe, 

While  on  the  ankle's  slender  round 

Those  strings  of  pearl  fair  Bertha  wound 

That,  bleached  Lochryan's  depths  within, 

Seemed  dusky  still  on  Edith's  skin. 

But  Einion,  of  experience  old, 

Had  weightiest  task  —  the  mantle's  fold 

I  n  many  an  artful  plait  she  tied 

To  show  the  form  it  seemed  to  hide, 

Till  on  the  floor  descending  rolled 

Its  waves  of  crimson  blent  with  gold. 


O,  lives  there  now  so  cold  a  maid, 
Who  thus  in  beauty's  pomp  arrayed, 
In  beauty's  proudest  pitch  of  power, 
And  conquest  won  —  the  bridal  hour  — 
With  every  charm  that  wins  the  heart, 
By  Nature  given,  enhanced  by  Art, 
Could  yet  the  fair  reflection  view 
In  the  bright  mirror  pictured  true, 
And  not  one  dimple  on  her  cheek 
A  telltale  consciousness  bespeak  ?  — 
Lives  still  such  maid  ? —  Fair  damsels,  say. 
For  further  vouches  not  my  lay 
Save  that  such  lived  in  Britain's  isle 
When   Lorn's    bright    Edith   scorned    to 
smile. 

VII. 

But  Morag,  to  whose  fostering  care 

Proud  Lorn  had  given  his  daughter  fair, 

Morag,  who  saw  a  mother's  aid 

By  all  a  daughter's  love  repaid  — 

Strict  was  that  bond,  most  kind  of  all, 

Inviolate  in  Highland  hall  — 

Gray  Morag  sate  a  space  apart, 

In  Edith's  eyes  to  read  her  heart. 

In  vain  the  attendant's  fond  appeal 

To  Morag's  skill,  to  Morag's  zeal ; 

She  marked  her  child  receive  their  care, 

Cold  as  the  image  sculptured  fair  — 

Form  of  some  sainted  patroness  — 

Which  cloistered  maids  combine  to  dress : 

She   marked  —  and   knew    her   nursling's 

heart 
In  the  vain  pomp  took  little  part. 
Wistful  awhile  she  gazed  —  then  pressed 
The  maiden  to  her  anxious  breast 
In  finished  loveliness  —  and  led 
To  where  a  turret's  airy  head, 
Slender  and  steep  and  battled  round, 
O'erlooked,  dark  Mull,  thy  mighty  Sound. 
Where  thwarting  tides  with  mingled  roar 
Part  thy  swarth  hills  from  Morven's  shore 

VIII. 

1  Daughter,'  she  said,  '  these  seas  behold. 
Round  twice  a  hundred  islands  rolled, 
From  Hirt  that  hears  their  northern  roar 
To  the  green  Hay's  fertile  shore  ; 
Or  mainland  turn  where  many  a  tower 
Owns  thy  bold  brother's  feudal  power. 
Each  on  its  own  dark  cape  reclined 
And  listening  to  its  own  wild  wind, 
From  where  Mingarry  sternly  placed 
O'erawes  the  woodland  and  the  waste, 
To  where  Dunstaffnage  hears  the  raging 
Of  Connal  with  its  rocks  engaging. 
Think'st  thou  amid  this  ample  round 
A  single  brow  but  thine  has  frowned, 


THE  LORD    OF   THE  ISLES. 


371 


To  sadden  this  auspicious  morn 
That  bids  the  daughter  of  high  Lorn 
Impledge  her  spousal  faith  to  wed 
The  heir  of  mighty  Somerled  ? 
Ronald,  from  many  a  hero  sprung, 
The  fair,  the  valiant,  and  the  young, 
Lord  of  the  Isles,  whose  lofty  name 
A  thousand  bards  have  given  to  fame, 
The  mate  of  monarchs,  and  allied 
On  equal  terms  with  England's  pride.  — 
From  chieftain's  tower  to  bondsman's  cot, 
Who  hears  the  tale,  and  triumphs  not  ? 
The  damsel  dons  her  best  attire, 
The  shepherd  lights  his  beltane  fire, 
Joy  !  joy !  each  warder's  horn  hath  sung, 
Joy  !  joy  !  each  matin  bell  hath  rung; 
The  holy  priest  says  grateful  mass, 
Loud  shouts  each  hardy  galla-glass, 
No  mountain  den  holds  outcast  boor 
Of  heart  so  dull,  of  soul  so  poor, 
But  he  hath  flung  his  task  aside, 
And  claimed  this  morn  for  holy-tide  ; 
Yet,  empress  of  this  joyful  day, 
Edith  is  sad  while  all  are  gay.' 

IX. 

Proud  Edith's  soul  came  to  her  eye, 
Resentment  checked  the  struggling  sigh. 
Her  hurrying  hand  indignant  dried 
The  burning  tears  of  injured  pride  — 


'  Morag,  forbear !  or  lend  thy  praise 

To  swell  yon  hireling  harpers'  lays ; 

Make  to  yon  maids  thy  boast  of  power, 

That  they  may  waste  a  wondering  hour 

Telling  of  banners  proudly  borne, 

Of  pealing  bell  and  bugle  horn, 

Or,  theme  more  dear,  of  robes  of  price, 

Crownlets  and  gauds  of  rare  device. 

But  thou,  experienced  as  thou  art, 

Think'st  thou  with  these  to  cheat  the  heart 

That,  bound  in  strong  affection's  chain, 

Looks  for  return  and  looks  in  vain  ? 

No  !  sum  thine  Edith's  wretched  lot 

In  these  brief  words  —  He  loves  her  not  1 


'  Debate  it  not  —  too  long  I  strove 

To  call  his  cold  observance  love, 

All  blinded  by  the  league  that  styled 

Edith  of  Lorn  —  while  yet  a  child 

She  tripped  the  heath  by-Morag's  side  — 

The  brave  Lord  Ronald's  destined  bride. 

Ere  yet  I  saw  him,  while  afar 

His  broadsword  blazed  in  Scotland's  warr 

Trained  to  believe  our  fates  the  same, 

My  bosom  throbbed  when  Ronald's  name 

Came  gracing  Fame's  heroic  tale, 

Like  perfume  on  the  summer  gale. 

What  pilgrim  sought  our  halls  nor  told 

Of  Ronald's  deeds  in  battle  bold ; 


372 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL    WORKS. 


Who  touched  the  harp  to  heroes'  praise 
But  his  achievements  swelled  the  lays  ? 
Even  Morag  —  not  a  tale  of  fame 
Was  hers  but  closed  with  Ronald's  name. 
He  came  !  and  all  that  had  been  told 
Of  his  high  worth  seemed  poor  and  cold, 
Tame,  lifeless,  void  of  energy, 
Unjust  to  Ronald  and  to  me  ! 


'  Since   then,   what    thought  had    Edith's 

heart 
And  gave  not  plighted  love  its  part !  — 
And  what  requital  ?  cold  delay  — 
Excuse  that  shunned  the  spousal  day-  — 
It  dawns  and  Ronald  is  not  here  !  — ' 
Hunts  he  Bentalla's  nimble  deer, 
Or  loiters  he  in  secret  dell 
To  bid  some  lighter  love  farewell, 
And  swear  that  though  he  may  not  scorn 
A  daughter  of  the  House  of  Lorn, 
Yet,  when  these  formal  rites  are  o'er, 
Again  they  meet  to  part  no  more  ? ' 


'  Hush,   daughter,    hush  !    thy  doubts   re- 
move, 
More  nobly  think  of  Ronald's  love. 
Look,  where  beneath  the  castle  gray 
His  fleet  unmoor  from  Aros  bay  ! 
See'st  not  each  galley's  topmast  bend 
As  on  the  yards  the  sails  ascend  ? 
Hiding  the  dark-blue  land  they  rise, 
Like  the  white  clouds  on  April  skies  ; 
The  shouting  vassals  man  the  oars, 
Behind  them  sink  Mull's  mountain  shores, 
Onward  their  merry  course  they  keep 
Through    whistling    breeze    and    foaming 

deep. 
And  mark  the  headmost,  seaward  cast, 
Stoop  to  the  freshening  gale  her  mast, 
As  if  she  veiled  its  bannered  pride 
To  greet  afar  her  prince's  bride  ! 
Thy  Ronald  comes,  and  while  in  speed 
His  galley  mates  the  flying  steed, 
He  chides  her  sloth  ! '  —  Fair  Edith  sighed, 
Blushed,  sadly  smiled,  and  thus  replied  : 

XIII. 

4  Sweet  thought,  but  vain  !  —  No,  Morag  ! 

mark, 
Type  of  his  course,  yon  lonely  bark, 
That  oft  hath  shifted  helm  and  sail 
To  win  its  way  against  the  gale. 
Since  peep  of  morn  my  vacant  eyes 
Have  viewed  by  fits  the  course  she  tries ; 
Now,  though  the  darkening  scud  comes  on, 
And  dawn's  fair  promises  be  gone, 
And  though  the  weary  crew  may  see 


Our  sheltering  haven  on  their  lee, 

Still  closer  to  the  rising  wind 

They  strive  her  shivering  sail  to  bind. 

Still  nearer  to  the  shelves'  dread  verge 

At  every  tack  her  course  they  urge, 

As  if  they  feared  Artornish  more 

Than  adverse  winds  and  breakers'  roar." 

XIV. 

Sooth  spoke  the  maid.     Amid  the  tide 

The  skiff  she  marked  lay  tossing  sore, 
And  shifted  oft  her  stooping  side, 
In  weary  tack  from  shore  to  shore. 
Yet  on  her  destined  course  no  more 

She  gained  of  forward  way 
Than  what  a  minstrel  may  compare 
To  the  poor  meed  which  peasants  share 

Who  toil  the  livelong  day  ; 
And  such  the  risk  her  pilot  braves 

That  oft,  before  she  wore, 
Her  boltsprit  kissed  the  broken  waves 
Where  in  white  foam  the  ocean  raves 

Upon  the  shelving  shore. 
Yet,  to  their  destined  purpose  true, 
Undaunted  toiled  her  hardy  crew, 

Nor  looked  where  shelter  lay, 
Nor  for  Artornish  Castle  drew, 

Nor  steered  for  Aros  bay. 

xv. 

Thus  while  they  strove  with  wind  and  seas, 
Borne  onward  by  the  willing  breeze, 

Lord  Ronald's  fleet  swept  by, 
Streamered  with  silk  and  tricked  with  gold, 
Manned  with  the  noble  and  the  bold 

Of  Island  chivalry. 
Around  their  prows  the  ocean  roars, 
And  chafes  beneath  their  thousand  oars, 
.  Yet  bears  them  on  their  way  : 
So  chafes  the  war-horse  in  his  might 
That  fieldward  bears  some  valiant  knight, 
Champs  till  both  bit  and  boss  are  white, 

But  foaming  must  obey. 
On  each  gay  deck  they  might  behold 
Lances  of  steel  and  crests  of  gold, 
And  hauberks  with  their  burnished  fold 

That  shimmered  fair  and  free  ; 
And  each  proud  galley  as  she  passed 
To  the  wild  cadence  of  the  blast 

Gave  wilder  minstrelsy. 
Full  many  a  shrill  triumphant  note 
Saline  and  Scallastle  bade  float 

Their  misty  shores  around  ; 
And  Morven's  echoes  answered  well. 
And  Duart  heard  the  distant  swell 

Come  down  the  darksome  Sound. 

XVI. 

So  bore  they  on  with  mirth  and  pride, 
And  if  that  laboring  bark  they  spied, 


THE  LORD    OF   THE   ISLES. 


373 


'T  was  with  such  idle  eye 
As  nobles  cast  on  lowly  boor 
When,  toiling  in  his  task  obscure, 

They  pass  him  careless  by. 
Let  them  sweep  on  with  heedless  eyes  ! 
But  had  they  known  what  mighty  prize 

In  that  frail  vessel  lay, 
The  famished  wolf  that  prowls  the  wold 
Had  scathless  passed  the  unguarded  fold, 
Ere,  drifting  by  these  galleys  bold, 

Unchallenged  were  her  way  ! 
And  thou,  Lord  Ronald,  sweep  thou  on 
With  mirth  and  pride  and  minstrel  tone  ! 
But  hadst  thou  known  who  sailed  so  nigh, 
Far  other  glance  were  in  thine  eye ! 
Far  other  flush  were  on  thy  brow, 
That,  shaded  by  the  bonnet,  now 
Assumes  but  ill  the  blithesome  cheer 
Of  bridegroom  when  the  bride  is  near  ! 

XVII. 

Yes,  sweep  they  on !  —  We  will  not  leave, 
For  them  that  triumph,  those  who  grieve. 

With  that  armada  gay 
Be  laughter  loud  and  jocund  shout, 
And  bards  to  cheer  the  wassail  route 

With  tale,  romance,  and  lay ; 
And  of  wild  mirth  each  clamorous  art, 
Which,  if  it  cannot  cheer  the  heart, 
May  stupefy  and  stun  its  smart 
'  For  one  loud  busy  day. 
Yes,  sweep  they  on  !  —  But  with  that  skiff 

Abides  the  minstrel  tale, 
Where  there  was  dread  of  surge  and  cliff, 
Labor  that  strained  each  sinew  stiff, 

And  one  sad  maiden's  wail. 

XVIII. 

All  day  with  fruitless  strife  they  toiled, 
With  eve  the  ebbing  currents  boiled 

More  fierce  from  strait  and  lake  ; 
And  midway  through  the  channel  met 
Conflicting  tides  that  foam  and  fret, 
And  high  their  mingled  billows  jet, 
As  spears  that  in  the  battle  set 

Spring  upward  as  they  break. 
Then  too  the  lights  of  eve  were  past, 
And  louder  sung  the  western  blast 

On  rocks  of  Inninmore  ; 
Rent  was  the  sail,  and  strained  the  mast, 
And  many  a  leak  was  gaping  fast, 
And  the  pale  steersman  stood  aghast 

And  gave  the  conflict  o'er. 

XIX. 

'T  was  then  that  One  whose  lofty  look 
Nor  labor  dulled  nor  terror  shook 

Thus  to  the  leader  spoke  :  — 
'  Brother,  how  hop'st  thou  to  abide 


The  fury  of  this  wildered  tide, 
Or  how  avoid  the  rock's  rude  side 

Until  the  day  has  broke  ? 
Didst  thou  not  mark  the  vessel  reel 
With  quivering  planks  and  groaning  keel 

At  the  last  billow's  shock  ? 
Yet  how  of  better  counsel  tell, 
Though  here  thou  see'st  poor  Isabel 

Half  dead  with  want  and  fear  ; 
For  look  on  sea,  or  look  on  land, 
Or  yon  dark  sky,  on  every  hand 

Despair  and  death  are  near. 
For  her  alone  I  grieve  —  on  me 
Danger  sits  light  by  land  and  sea, 

I  follow  where  thou  wilt ; 
Either  to  bide  the  tempest's  lour, 
Or  wend  to  yon  unfriendly  tower, 
Or  rush  amid  their  naval  power, 
With  war-cry  wake  their  wassail-hour, 

And  die  with  hand  on  hilt.' 

XX. 

That  elder  leader's  calm  reply 

In  steady  voice  was  given, 
'  In  man's  most  dark  extremity 

Oft  succor  dawns  from  heaven. 
Edward,  trim  thou  the  shattered  sail, 
The  helm  be  mine,  and  down  the  gale 

Let  our  free  course  be  driven  ; 
So  shall  we  'scape  the  western  bay, 
The  hostile  fleet,  the  unequal  fray, 
So  safely  hold  our  vessel's  way 

Beneath  tne  castle  wall : 
For  if  a  hope  of  safety  rest, 
'T  is  on  the  sacred  name  of  guest, 
Who  seeks  for  shelter  storm-distressed 

Within  a  chieftain's  hall. 
If  not  —  it  best  beseems  our  worth, 
Our  name,  our  right,  our  lofty  birth, 

By  noble  hands  to  fall.' 

XXI. 

The  helm,  to  his  strong  arm  consigned, 
Gave  the  reefed  sail  to  meet  the  wind, 

And  on  her  altered  way 
Fierce  bounding  forward  sprung  the  ship, 
Like  greyhound  starting  from  the  slip 

To  seize  his  flying  prey. 
Awaked  before  the  rushing  prow 
The  mimic  fires  of  ocean  glow,     . 

Those  lightnings  of  the  wave  ; 
Wild  sparkles  crest  the  broken  tides, 
And  flashing  round  the  vessel's  sides 

With  elfish  lustre  lave, 
While  far  behind  their  livid  light 
To  the  dark  billows  of  the  night 

A  gloomy  splendor  gave,  * 

It  seems  as  if  old  Ocean  snakes 
From  his  dark  brow  the  lucid  flakes 

In  envious  pageantry, 


374 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL    WORKS. 


To  match  the  meteor-light  that  streaks 
Grim  Hecla's  midnight  sky. 

XXII. 

Nor  lacked  they  steadier  light  to  keep 
Their  course  upon  the  darkened  deep  ;  — 
Artornish,  on  her  frowning  steep 

"Twixt  cloud  and  ocean  hung, 
Glanced  with  a  thousand  lights  of  glee, . 
And  landward  far  and  far  to  sea 

Her  festal  radiance  flung. 
By  that  blithe  beacon-light  they  steered, 

Whose  lustre  mingled  well 
With  the  pale  beam  that  now  appeared, 
As  the  cold  moon  her  head  upreared 

Above  the  eastern  fell. 


XXIII. 

Thus  guided,  on  their  course  they  bore 
Until  they  neared  the  mainland  shore, 
When  frequent  on  the  hollow  blast 
Wild  shouts  of  merriment  were  cast, 
And  wind  and  wave  and  sea-birds'  cry 
With  wassail  sounds  in  concert  vie, 
Like  funeral  shrieks  with  revelry, 

Or  like  the  battle-shout 
By  peasants  heard  from  cliffs  on  high 
When  Triumph,  Rage,  and  Agony 

Madden  the  fight  and  rout. 
Now  nearer  yet  through  mist  and  storm 
Dimly  arose  the  castle's  form  . 

And  deepened  shadow  made, 
Far  lengthened  on  the  main  below, 
Where  dancing  in  reflected  glow 

A  hundred  torches  played, 
Spangling  the  wave  with  lights  as  vain 
As  pleasures  in  this  vale  of  pain, 

That  dazzle  as  they  fade. 


Beneath  the  castle's  sheltering  lee 
They  staid  their  course  in  quiet  sea. 
Hewn  in  the  rock,  a  passage  there 
Sought  the  dark  fortress  by  a  stair, 

So  strait,  so  high,  so  steep, 
With  peasant's  staff  one  valiant  hand 
Might  well  the  dizzy  pass  have  manned 
"Gainst   hundreds  armed   with    spear   and 
brand 

And  plunged  them  in  the  deep. 
His  bugle  then  the  helmsman  wound  : 
Loud  answered  every  echo  round 

From  turret,  rock,  and  bay. 
The  postern's  hinges  crash  and  groan, 
And  soon  the  warder's  cresset  shone 
<  )u  those  rude  steps  of  slippery  stone, 

To  light  the  upward  way. 
4  Thrice  welcome,  holy  Sire  ! '  he  said  ; 


'  Full  long  the  spousal  train  have  staid, 

And,  vexed  at  thy  delay, 
Feared  lest  amidst  these  wildering  seas 
The  darksome  night  and  freshening  breeze 

Had  driven  thy  bark  astray.'  — 

XXV. 

'  Warder,'  the  younger  stranger  said, 
'  Thine  erring  guess  some  mirth  had  made 
In  mirthful  hour  ;  but  nights  like  these, 
When  the  rough  winds  wake  western  seas, 
Brook  not  of  glee.     We  crave  some  aid 
And  needful  shelter  for  this  maid 

Until  the  break  of  day  ; 
For  to  ourselves  the  deck's  rude  plank 
Is  easy  as  the  mossy  bank 

That 's  breathed  upon  by  May. 
And  for  our  storm-tossed  skiff  we  seek 
Short  shelter  in  this  leeward  creek, 
Prompt  when  the  dawn  the  east  shall  streak 

Again  to  bear  away.' 
Answered  the  warder,  '  In  what  name 
Assert  ye  hospitable  claim  ? 

Whence  come  or  whither  bound  ? 
Hath  Erin  seen  your  parting  sails, 
Or  come  ye  on  Norweyan  gales  ? 
And  seek  ye  England's  fertile  vales, 

Or  Scotland's  mountain  ground?' 

xxvi. 

'  Warriors  —  for  other  title  none 
For  some  brief  space  we  list  to  own, 
Bound  by  a  vow  —  warriors  are  we; 
In  strife  by  land  and  storm  by  sea 

We  have  been  known  to  fame ; 
And  these  brief  words  have  import  dear, 
When  sounded  in  a  rfoble  ear, 
To  harbor  safe  and  friendly  cheer 

That  gives  us  rightful  claim. 
Grant  us  the  trivial  boon  we  seek, 
And  we  in  other  realms  will  speak 

Fair  of  your  courtesy  ; 
Deny—  and  be  your  niggard  hold 
Scorned  by  the  noble  and  the  bold, 
Shunned  by  the  pilgrim  on  the  wold 

And  wanderer  on  the  lea ! ' 


XXVII. 


no 


claim    like 


'  Bold    stranger, 

thine 

No  bolt  revolves  by  hand  of  mine, 
Though  urged  in  tone  that  more  expressed 
A  monarch  than  a  suppliant  guest. 
Be  what  ye  will,  Artornish  Hall 
On  this  glad  eve  is  free  to  all. 
Though  ye  had  drawn  a  hostile  sword 
'Gainst  our  ally,  great  England's  Lord, 
Or  mail  upon  your  shoulders  borne 
To  battle  with  the  Lord  of  Lorn, 


THE  LORD    OF   THE  ISLES. 


375 


Or  outlawed  dwelt  by  greenwood  tree 
With  the  fierce  Knight  of  Ellerslie, 
Or  aided  even  the  murderous  strife 
When  Comyn  fell  beneath  the  knife 
Of  that  fell  homicide  the  Bruce, 
This  night  had  been  a  term  of  truce.  — 
Ho,  vassals  !  give  these  guests  your  care, 
And  show  the  narrow  postern  stair.' 

XXVIII. 

To  land  these  two  bold  brethren  leapt  — 
The  weary  crew  their  vessel  kept  — 
And,  lighted  by  the  torches'  flare 
That  seaward  flung  their  smoky  glare, 
The  younger  knight  that  maiden  bare 

Half  lifeless  up  the  rock  ; 
On  his  strong  shoulder  leaned  her  head, 
And  down  her  long  dark  tresses  shed} 
As  the  wild  vine  in  tendrils  spread 

Droops  from  the  mountain  oak. 
Him  followed  close  that  elder  lord, 
And  in  his  hand  a  sheathed  sword 

Such  as  few  arms  could  wield ; 
But  when  he  bouned  him  to  such  task 
Well  could  it  cleave  the  strongest  casque 

And  rend  the  surest  shield. 

XXIX. 

The  raised  portcullis'  arch  they  pass, 
The  wicket  with  its  bars  of  brass, 

The  entrance  long  and  low, 
Flanked  at  each  turn  by  loop-holes  strait, 
Where  bowmen  might  in  ambush  wait  — 
If  force  or  fraud  should  burst  the  gate  — 

To  gall  an  entering  foe. 
But  every  jealous  post  of  ward 
Was  now  defenceless  and  unbarred, 

And  all  the  passage  free 
To  one  low-browed  and  vaulted  room 
Where  squire  and  yeoman,  page  and  groom. 

Plied  their  loud  revelry. 

XXX. 

And  '  Rest  ye  here,'  the  warder  bade, 
1  Till  to  our  lord  your  suit  is  said.  — 


And,  comrades,  gaze  not  on  the  maid 
And  on  these  men  who  ask  our  aid. 

As  if  ye  ne'er  had  seen 
A  damsel  tired  of  midnight  bark 
Or  wanderers  of  a  moulding  stark 

And  bearing  martial  mien.' 
But  not  for  Eachin's  reproof 
Would  page  or  vassal  stand  aloof, 

But  crowded  on  to  stare, 
As  men  of  courtesy  untaught, 
Till  fiery  Edward  roughly  caught 

From  one  the  foremost  there 
His  chequered  plaid,  and  in  its  shroud, 
To  hide  her  from  the  vulgar  crowd, 

Involved  his  sister  fair. 
His  brother,  as  the  clansman  bent 
His  sullen  brow  in  discontent, 

Made  brief  and  stern  excuse  : 
1  Vassal,  were  thine  the  cloak  of  pall 
That  decks  thy  lord  in  bridal  hall, 

'T  were  honored  by  her  use.' 

XXXI. 

Proud  was  his  tone  but  calm;  his  eye 

Had  that  compelling  dignity, 

His  mien  that  bearing  haught  and  high, 

Which  common  spirits  fear ; 
Needed  nor  word  nor  signal  more, 
Nod,  wink,  and  laughter,  all  were  o'er ; 
Upon  each  other  back  they  bore 

And  gazed  like  startled  deer. 
But  now  appeared  the  seneschal, 
Commissioned  by  his  lord  to  call 
The  strangers  to  the  baron's  hall, 

Where  feasted  fair  and  free 
That  Island  Prince  in  nuptial  tide 
With  Edith  there  his  lovely  bride, 
And  her  bold  brother  by  her  side, 
And  many  a  chief,  the  flower  and  pride 

Of  Western  land  and  sea. 

Here  pause  we,  gentles,  for  a  space ; 
And,  if  our  tale  hath  won  your  grace, 
Grant  us  brief  patience  and  again 
We  will  renew  the  minstrel  strain. 


376 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL    WORKS. 


Cfje  3Lotti   at  tfje  Esles. 


CANTO   SECOND. 


Fill  the  bright  goblet,  spread  the  festive  board  ! 
Summon  the  gay,  the  noble,  and  the  fair! 
Through  the  loud  hall  in  joyous  concert  poured, 
Let  mirth  and  music  sound  the  dirge  of  Care  ! 
But  ask  thou  not  if  Happiness  be  there, 
If  the  loud  laugh  disguise  convulsive  throe, 
Or  if  the  brow  the  heart's  true  livery  wear ; 
Lift  not  the  festal  mask  !  —  enough  to  know, 
No  scene  of  mortal  life  but  teems  with  mortal  woe. 


With  beakers'  clang,  with  harpers'  lay, 
With  all  that  olden  time  deemed  gay, 
The  Island  Chieftain  feasted  high  ; 
But  there  was  in  his  troubled  eye 
A  gloomy  fire,  and  on  his  brow 
Now  sudden  flushed  and  faded  now 
Emotions  such  as  draw  their  birth 
From  deeper  source  than  festal  mirth. 
By  fits  he  paused,  and  harper's  strain 
And  jester's  tale  went  round  in  vain, 
Or  fell  but  on  his  idle  ear 
Like  distant  sounds  which  dreamers  hear. 
Then  would  he  rouse  him,  and  employ 
Each  art  to  aid  the  clamorous  joy, 

And  call  for  pledge  and  lay, 
And  for  brief  space  of  all  the  crowd, 
As  he  was  loudest  of  the  loud, 

Seem  gayest  of  the  gay. 

in. 
Yet  naught  amiss  the  bridal  throng 
Marked  in  brief  mirth  or  musing  long; 
The  vacant  brow,  the  unlistening  ear, 
They  gave  to  thoughts  of  raptures  near, 
And  his  fierce  starts  of  sudden  glee 
Seemed  bursts  of  bridegroom's  ecstasy. 
Nor  thus  alone  misjudged  the  crowd, 
Since  lofty  Lorn,  suspicious,  proud, 
And  jealous  of  his  honored  line, 
And  that  keen  knight,  De  Argentine  — 
From  England  sent  on  errand  high 
The  western  league  more  firm  to  tie  — 
Both  deemed  in  Ronald's  mood  to  find 
A  lover's  transport-troubled  mind. 
But  one  sad  heart,  one  tearful  eye, 
Pierced  deeper  through  the  mystery, 
And  watched  with  agony  and  fear 
Her  wayward  bridegroom's  varied  cheer. 

IV. 

She  watched — yet  feared  to  meet  his  glance, 
And  he  shunned  hers ;  — till  when  by  chance 


They  met,  the  point  of  foeman*s  lance 

Had  given  a  milder  pang! 
Beneath  the  intolerable  smart 
He   writhed;  —  then    sternly   manned    his 

heart 
To  play  his  hard  but  destined  part, 

And  from  the  table  sprang. 
'  Fill  me  the  mighty  cup,'  he  said, 
'  Erst  owned  by  royal  Somerled  ! 
Fill  it,  till  on  the  studded  brim 
In  burning  gold  the  bubbles  swim, 
And  every  gem  of  varied  shine 
Glow  doubly  bright  in  rosy  wine  ! 

To  you,  brave  lord,  and  brother  mine. 
O'f  Lorn,  this  pledge  I  drink  — 

The  Union  of  Our  House  with  thine. 
By  this  fair  bridal-link  ! ' 


'  Let  it  pass  round  ! '  quoth  he  of  Lorn. 
'  And  in  good  time — that  winded  horn 

Must  of  the  abbot  tell ; 
The  laggard  monk  is  come  at  last.' 
Lord  Ronald  heard  the  bugle-blast, 
And  on  the  floor  at  random  cast 

The  untasted  goblet  fell. 
But  when  the  warder  in  his  ear 
Tells  other  news,  his  blither  cheer 

Returns  like  sun  of  May 
When  through  a  thunder-cloud  it  beams  ! 
Lord  of  two  hundred  isles,  he  seems 

As  glad  of  brief  delay 
As  some  poor  criminal  might  feel 
When  from  the  gibbet  or  the  wheel 

Respited  for  a  day. 

VI. 

'  Brother  of  Lorn,'  with  hurried  voice 
He  said,  'and  you,  fair  lords,  rejoice  ! 

Here,  to  augment  our  glee, 
Come  wandering  knights  from  travel  far, 
Well  proved,  they  say,  in  strife  of  war 

And  tempest  on  the  sea.  — 


THE  LORD    OF   THE  ISLES. 


377 


Ho  !  give  them  at  your  board  such  place 
As  best  their  presences  may  grace, 

And  bid  them  welcome  free  ! ' 
With  solemn  step  and  silver  wand, 
The  seneschal  the  presence  scanned 
Of  these  strange  guests,  and  well  he  knew 
How  to  assign  their  rank  its  due  ; 

For  though  the  costly  furs 
That  erst  had  decked  their  caps  were  torn, 
And  their  gay  robes  were  over-worn, 

And  soiled  their  gilded  spurs, 
Yet  such  a  high  commanding  grace 
Was  in  their  mien  and  in  their  face 
As  suited  best  the  princely  dais 

And  royal  canopy ; 
And  there  he  marshalled  them  their  place, 

First  of  that  company. 

VII. 

Then  lords  and  ladies  spake  aside, 
And  angry  looks  the  error  chide 
That  gave  to  guests  unnamed,  unknown, 
A  place  so  near  their  prince's  throne  ; 

But  Owen  Erraught  said, 
'  For  forty  years  a  seneschal, 
To  marshal  guests  in  bower  and  hall 

Has  been  my  honored  trade. 
Worship  and  birth  to  me  are  known, 
By  look,  by  bearing,  and  by  tone, 
Not  by  furred  robe  or  broidered  zone ; 

And  'gainst  an  oaken  bough 
I  '11  gage  my  silver  wand  of  state 
That  these  three  strangers  oft  have  sate 

In  higher  place  than  now.' 

VIII. 

;  I  too,'  the  aged  Ferrand  said, 
'  Am  qualified  by  minstrel  trade 

Of  rank  and  place  to  tell ;  — 
Marked  ye  the  younger  stranger's  eye, 
My  mates,  how  quick,  how  keen,  how  high, 

How  fierce  its  flashes  fell, 
Glancing  among  the  noble  rout 
As  if  to  seek  the  noblest  out, 
Because  the  owner  might  not  brook 
On  any  save  his  peers  to  look  ? 

And  yet  it  moves  me  more, 
That  steady,  calm,  majestic  brow, 
With  which  the  elder  chief  even  now 

Scanned  the  gay  presence  o'er, 
Like  being  of  superior  kind, 
In  whose  high-toned  impartial  mind 
Degrees  of  mortal  rank  and  state 
Seem  objects  of  indifferent  weight. 

The  lady  too  —  though  closely  tied 
The  mantle  veil  both  face  and  eye, 

Her  motions'  grace  it  could  not  hide, 
Nor  cloud  her  form's  fair  symmetry.' 


Suspicious  doubt  and  lordly  scorn 
Loured  on  the  haughty  front  of  Lorn. 
From  underneath  his  brows  of  pride 
The  stranger  guests  he  sternly  eyed, 
And  whispered  closely  what  the  ear 
Of  Argentine  alone  might  hear ; 

Then  questioned,  high  and  brief, 
If  in  their  voyage  aught  they  knew 
Of  the  rebellious  Scottish  crew 
Who  to  Rath-Erin's  shelter  drew 

With  Carrick's  outlawed  Chief  ? 
And  if,  their  winter's  exile  o'er, 
They  harbored  still  by  Ulster's  shore, 
Or  launched  their  galleys  on  the  main 
To  vex  their  native  land  again  ? 

x. 

That  younger  stranger,  fierce  and  high, 
At  once  confronts  the  chieftain's  eye 

With  look  of  equal  scorn : 
'  Of  rebels  have  we  naught  to  show  ; 
But  if  of  royal  Bruce  thou  'dst  know, 

I  warn  thee  he  has  sworn, 
Ere  thrice  three  days  shall  come  and  go, 
His  banner  Scottish  winds  shall  blow, 
Despite  each  mean  or  mighty  foe, 
From  England's  every  bill  and  bow 

To  Allaster  of  Lorn.' 
Kindled  the  mountain  chieftain's  ire, 
But  Ronald  quenched  the  rising  fire : 
'  Brother,  it  better  suits  the  time 
To  chase  the  night  with  Ferrand's  rhyme 
Than  wake  midst  mirth  and  wine  the  jars 
That  flow  from  these  unhappy  wars.' 
1  Content,'  said  Lorn  ;  and  spoke  apart 
With  Ferrand,  master  of  his  art, 

Then  whispered  Argentine, 
'  The  lay  I  named  will  carry  smart 
To  these  bold  strangers'  haughty  heart, 

If  right  this  guess  of  mine.' 
He  ceased,  and  it  was  silence  all 
Until  the  minstrel  waked  the  hall. 


fffjc  Broorij  of  2lorn. 

'  Whence  the  brooch  of  burning  gold 
That  clasps  the  chieftain's  mantle-fold, 
Wrought  and  chased  with  rare  device, 
Studded  fair  with  gems  of  price, 
On  the  varied  tartans  beaming, 
As,  through  night's  pale  rainbow  gleaming, 
Fainter  now,  now  seen  afar, 
Fitful  shines  the  northern  star  ? 

1  Gem !  ne'er  wrought  on  Highland  moun- 
tain, 
Did  the  fairy  of  the  fountain 


37& 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Or  the  mermaid  of  the  wave 
Frame  thee  in  some  coral  cave  ? 
Did,  in  Iceland's  darksome  mine, 
Dwarf's  swart  hands  thy  metal  twine  ? 
Or,  mortal-moulded,  comest  thou  here 
From  England's  love  or  France's  fear  ? 

XII. 

Song  Continued. 

4  No  !  —  thy  splendors  nothing  tell 
Foreign  art  or  faery  spell. 
Moulded  thou  for  monarch's  use, 
By  the  overweening  Bruce, 
When  the  royal  robe  he  tied 
O'er  a  heart  of  wrath  and  pride ; 
Thence  in  triumph  wert  thou  torn 
By  the  victor  hand  of  Lorn  ! 

'  When  the  gem  was  won  and  lost, 
Widely  was  the  war-cry  tossed  ! 
Rung  aloud  Bendourish  fell, 
Answered  Douchart's  sounding  dell. 
Fled  the  deer  from  wild  Teyndrum, 
When  the  homicide  o'ercome 
Hardly  'scaped  with  scathe  and  scorn, 
Left  the  pledge  with  conquering  Lorn  ! 

XIII. 

Song  CTonriuDeB. 

•  Vain  was  then  the  Douglas  brand, 
Vain  the  Campbell's  vaunted  hand, 
Vain  Kirkpatrick's  bloody  dirk, 
Making  sure  of  murder's  work  ; 
Barendown  fled  fast  away, 
Fled  the  fiery  De  la  Haye, 
When  this  brooch  triumphant  borne 
Beamed  upon  the  breast  of  Lorn. 

1  Farthest  fled  its  former  lord, 
Left  his  men  to  brand  and  cord, 
Bloody  brand  of  Highland  steel, 
English  gibbet,  axe,  and  wheel. 
Let  him  fly  from  coast  to  coast, 
Dogged  by  Comyn's  vengeful  ghost, 
While  his  spoils  in  triumph  worn 
Long  shall  grace  victorious  Lorn  ! ' 

xiv. 
As  glares  the  tiger  on  his  foes, 
Hemmed  in  by  hunters,  spears,  and  bows, 
And,  ere  he  bounds  upon  the  ring, 
Selects  the  object  of  his  spring,  — 
Now  on  the  ban!,  now  on  his  lord, 
So  Edward  glared  and  grasped  his  sword  - 
But  stern  his  brother  spoke,  'Be  still. 
What !  art  thou  yet  so  wild  of  will, 
After  high  deeds  and  sufferings  long, 
To  chafe  thee  for  a  menial's  song?  — 


Well  hast  thou  framed,  old  man,  thy  strains. 

To  praise  the  hand  that  pays  thy  pains  ! 

Yet  something  might  thy  song  have  told 

Of  Lorn's  three  vassals,  true  and  bold, 

Who  rent  their  lord  from  Bruce's  hold 

As  underneath  his  knee  he  lay, 

And  died  to  save  him  in  the  fray. 

I  've  heard  the  Bruce's  cloak  and  clasp 

Was  clenched  within  their  dying  grasp, 

What  time  a  hundred  foemen  more 

Rushed  in  and  back  the  victor  bore, 

Long  after  Lorn  had  left  the  strife, 

Full  glad  to  'scape  with  limb  and  life.  — 

Enough  of  this  —  and,  minstrel,  hold 

As  minstrel-hire  this  chain  of  gold, 

For  future  lays  a  fair  excuse 

To  speak  more  nobly  of  the  Bruce.'  — 

xv. 

'  Now,  by  Columba's  shrine,  I  swear, 
And  every  saint  that 's  buried  there, 
'T  is  he  himself ! '  Lorn  sternly  cries, 
'  And  for  my  kinsman's  death  he  dies.' 
As  loudly  Ronald  calls,  '  Forbear ! 
Not  in  my  sight  while  brand  I  wear, 
O'ermatched  by  odds,  shall  warrior  fall, 
Or  blood  of  stranger  stain  my  hall ! 
This  ancient  fortress  of  my  race 
Shall  be  misfortune's  resting-place, 
Shelter  and  shield  of  the  distressed, 
No  slaughter-house  for  shipwrecked  guest." 
'  Talk  not  to  me,'  fierce  Lorn  replied, 
'  Of  odds  or  match  !  —  when  Comyn  died, 
Three  daggers  clashed  within  his  side  ! 
Talk  not  to  me  of  sheltering  hall, 
The  Church  of  God  saw  Comyn  fall ! 
On  God's  own  altar  streamed  his  blood, 
While  o'er  my  prostrate  kinsman  stood 
The  ruthless  murderer  —  e'en  as  now  — 
With  armed  hand  and  scornful  brow  !  — 
Up>  all  who  love  me  !  blow  on  blow  ! 
And  lay  the  outlawed  felons  low  ! ' 

xvi.' 
Then  up  sprang  many  a  mainland  lord, 
Obedient  to  their  chieftain's  word. 
Barcaldine's  arm  is  high  in  air, 
And  Kinloch-Alline's  blade  is  bare, 
Black  Murthok's  dirk  has  left  its  sheath, 
And  clenched  is  Dermid's  hand  of  death. 
Their  muttered  threats  of  vengeance  swell 
Into  a  wild  and  warlike  yell ; 
Onward  they  press  with  weapons  high, 
The  affrighted  females  shriek  and  fly, 
And,  Scotland,  then  thy  brightest  ray 
Had  darkened  ere  its  noon  of  day, 
But  every  chief  of  birth  and  fame 
That  from  the  Isles  of  Ocean  came 
At  Ronald's  side  that  hour  withstood 
Fierce  Lorn's  relentless  thirst  for  blood. 


THE  LORD   OF   THE  ISLES. 


379 


XVII. 

Brave  Torquil  from  Dunvegan  high, 
Lord  of  the  misty  hills  of  Skye, 
Mac-Niel,  wild  Bara's  ancient  thane, 
Duart  of  bold  Clan-Gillian's  strain, 
Fergus  of  Canna's  castled  bay, 
Mac-Duffith,  Lord  of  Colonsay, 
Soon  as  they  saw  the  broadswords  glance, 
With  ready  weapons  rose  at  once, 
More  prompt  that  many  an  ancient  feud, 
Full  oft  suppressed,  full  oft  renewed, 
Glowed  'twixt  the  chieftains  of  Argyle. 
And  many  a  lord  of  ocean's  isle. 
Wild  was  the  scene  —  each  sword  was  bare, 
Back  streamed  each  chieftain's  shaggy  hair, 
In  gloomy  opposition  set, 
Eyes,  hands,  and  brandished  weapons  met; 
Blue  gleaming  o'er  the  social  board, 
Flashed  to  the  torches  many  a  sword ; 
And  soon  those  bridal  lights  may  shine 
On  purple  blood  for  rosy  wine. 

XVIII. 

While  thus  for  blows  and  death  prepared, 
Each  heart  was  up,  each  weapon  bared, 
Each  foot  advanced,  —  a  surly  pause 
Still  reverenced  hospitable  laws. 
All  menaced  violence,  but  alike 
Reluctant  each  the  first  to  strike  — 
For  aye  accursed  in  minstrel  line 
Is  he  who  brawls  mid  song  and  wine, 


And,  matched  in  numbers  and  in  might. 
Doubtful  and  desperate  seemed  the  fight. 
Thus  threat  and  murmur  died  away, 
Till  on  the  crowded  hall  there  lay 
Such  silence  as  the  deadly  still 
Ere  bursts  the  thunder  on  the  hill. 
With  blade  advanced,  each  chieftain  bold 
Showed  like  the  Sworder's  form  of  old, 
As  wanting  still  the  torch  of  life 
To  wake  the  marble  into  strife 

XIX. 

That  awful  pause  the  stranger  maid 

And  Edith  seized  to  pray  for  aid. 

As  to  De  Argentine  she  clung, 

Away  her  veil  the  stranger  flung, 

And,  lovely  mid  her  wild  despair, 

Fast  streamed  her  eyes,  wide  flowed  her 

hair : 
'  O  thou,  of  knighthood  once  the  flower, 
Sure  refuge  in  distressful  hour, 
Thou  who  in  Judah  well  hast  fought 
For  our  dear  faith  and  oft  hast  sought 
Renown  in  knightly  exercise 
When  this  poor  hand  has  dealt  the  prize, 
Say,  can  thy  soul  of  honor  brook' 
On  the  unequal  strife  to  look, 
When,  butchered  thus  in  peaceful  hall, 
Those  once  thy  friends,  my  brethren,  fall ! ' 
To  Argentine  she  turned  her  word, 
But  her  eye  sought  the  Island  Lord. 


38o 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL   WORKS. 


A  flush  like  evening's  setting  flame 
Glowed  on  his  cheek;  his  hardy  frame 
As  with  a  brief  convulsion  shook  : 
With  hurried  voice  and  eager  look, 
k  Fear  not,'  he  said,  'my  Isabel ! 
What  said  I  —  Edith  !  —  all  is  well  — 
Nay,  fear  not  —  I  will  well  provide 
The  safety  of  my  lovely  bride  — 
My  bride  ? '  — but  there  the  accents  clung 
In  tremor  to  his  faltering  tongue. 


Now  rose  De  Argentine  to  claim 
The  prisoners  in  his  sovereign's  name 
To  England's  crown,  who,  vassals  sworn, 
'Gainst  their  liege  lord#had  weapon  borne  •*— 
Such  speech,  I  ween,  was  but  to  hide 
His  care  their  safety  to  provide; 
For  knight  more  true  in  thought  and  deed 
Than  Argentine  ne'er  spurred  a  steed  — 
And  Ronald  who  his  meaning  guessed 
Seemed  half  to  sanction  the  request. 
This  purpose  fiery  Torquil  broke: 
1  Somewhat  we  've  heard  of  England's  yoke,' 
He  said,  '  and  in  our  islands  Fame 
Hath  whispered  of  a  lawful  claim 
That  calls  the  Bruce  fair  Scotland's  lord, 
Though  dispossessed  by  foreign  sword. 
This  craves  reflection  —  but  though  right 
And  just  the  charge  of  England's  Knight, 
Let  England's  crown  her  rebels  seize 
Where  she  has   power ;  —  in   towers   like 

these, 
Midst  Scottish  chieftains  summoned  here 
To  bridal  mirth  and  bridal  cheer, 
Be  sure,  with  no  consent  of  mine 
Shall  either  Lorn  or  Argentine 
With  chains  or  violence,  in  our  sight, 
Oppress  a  brave  and  banished  knight.' 

XXI. 

Then  waked  the  wild  debate  again 
With  brawling  threat  and  clamor  vain. 
Vassals  and  menials  thronging  in 
Lent  their  brute  rage  to  swell  the  din  ; 
When  far  and  wide  a  bugle-clang 
From  the  dark  ocean  upward  rang. 
1  The  abbot  comes  ! '  they  cry  at  once, 
'  The  holy  man,  whose  favored  glance 

Hath  sainted  visions  known; 
Angels  have  met  him  on  the  way, 
ide  the  blessed  martyr's  bay, 

And  by  Columba's  stone. 
I  lis  monks  have  heard  their  hvmnings  high 
Sound  from  the  summit  of  Dun-Y, 

To  cheer  his  penance  lone, 
When  at  each  cross,  on  girth  and  wold  — 
Their  number  thrice  a  hundred-fold  — 
I  lis  prayer  he  made,  his  beads  he  told, 

With  Aves  many  a  one  — 


He  comes  our  feuds  to  reconcile, 
A  sainted  man  from  sainted  isle  ; 
We  will  his  holy  doom  abide, 
The  abbot  shall  our  strife  decide.' 

XXII. 

Scarcely  this  fair  accord  was  o'er 
When  through  the  wide  revolving  door 

The  black-stoled  brethren  wind  ; 
Twelve  sandalled  monks  who  relics  bore, 
With  many  a  torch-bearer  before 

And  many  a  cross  behind. 
Then  sunk  each  fierce  uplifted  hand, 
And  dagger  bright  and  flashing  brand 

Dropped  swiftly  at  the  sight ; 
They  vanished  from  the  Churchman's  eye, 
As  shooting  stars  that  glance  and  die 

Dart  from  the  vault  of  night. 

XXIII. 

The  abbot  on  the  threshold  stood, 

And  in  his  hand  the  holy  rood ; 

Back  on  his  shoulders  flowed  his  hood, 

The  torch's  glaring  ray 
Showed  in  its  red  and  flashing  light 
His  withered  cheek  and  amice  white, 
His  blue  eye  glistening  cold  and  bright, 

His  tresses  scant  and  gray. 
'  Fair  Lords,'  he  said,  '  Our  Lady's  love, 
And  peace  be  with  you  from  above, 

And  Benedicite!  — 
But  what  means  this  ?  —  no  peace  is  here  !  — 
Do  dirks  unsheathed  suit  bridal  cheer? 

Or  are  these  naked  brands 
A  seemly  show  for  Churchman's  sight 
When  he  comes  summoned  to  unite 

Betrothed  hearts  and  hands  ? ' 

XXIV. 

Then,  cloaking  hate  with  fiery  zeal. 
Proud  Lorn  first  answered  the  appeal : 

'Thou  com'st,  O  holy  man, 
True  sons  of  blessed  church  to  greet. 
But  little  deeming  here  to  meet 

A  wretch  beneath  the  ban 
Of  Pope  and  Church  for  murder  done 
Even  on  the  sacred  altar-stone  — 
Well  mayst  thou  wonder  we  should  know 
Such  miscreant  here,  nor  lay  him  low, 
Or  dream  of  greeting,  peace,  or  truce, 
With  excommunicated  Bruce ! 
Yet  well  I  grant,  to  end  debate, 
Thy  sainted  voice  decide  his  fate.' 

XXV.- 

Then  Ronald  pled  the  stranger's  cause. 
And  knighthood's  oath  and  honor's  laws ; 
And  Isabel  on  bended  knee 
Brought  prayers  and  tears  to  back  the  plea  ; 


THE  LORD   OF   THE   ISLES. 


381 


And  Edith  lent  her  generous  aid, 
And  wept,  and  Lorn  for  mercy  prayed. 
1  Hence,'  he  exclaimed,  '  degenerate  maid  ! 
Was  't  not  enough  to  Ronald's  bower 
I  brought  thee,  like  a  paramour, 
Or  bond-maid  at  her  master's  gate, 
His  careless  cold  approach  to  wait?  — 
But  the  bold  Lord  of  Cumberland, 
The  gallant  Clifford,  seeks  thy  hand  ; 
His  it  shall  be  —  Nay,  no  reply  ! 
Hence  !  till  those  rebel  eyes  be  dry.' 
With  grief  the  abbot  heard  and  saw, 
Yet  naught  relaxed  his  brow  of  awe. 


Where  's  Nigel  Bruce  ?  and  De  la  Haye, 
And  valiant  Seton  —  where  are  they? 
Where  Somerville,  the  kind  and  free  ? 
And  Fraser,  flower  of  chivalry  ? 
Have  they  not  been  on  gibbet  bound, 
Their  quarters  flung  to  hawk  and  hound, 
And  hold  we  here  a  cold  debate 
To  yield  more  victims  to  their  fate  ? 
What !  can  the  English  Leopard's  mood 
Never  be  gorged  with  northern  blood  ? 
Was  not  the  life  of  Athole  shed 
To  soothe  the  tyrant's  sickened  bed  ? 
And  must  his  word  till  dying  day 


XXVI. 

Then  Argentine,  in  England's  name, 
So  highly  urged  his  sovereign's  claim 
He  waked  a  spark  that  long  suppressed 
Had  smouldered  in  Lord  Ronald's  breast ; 
And  now,  as  from  the  flint  the  fire, 
Flashed  forth  at  once  his  generous  ire. 
•  Enough  of  noble  blood,'  he  said, 
;  By  English  Edward  had  been  shed, 
Since  matchless  Wallace  first  had  been 
In  mockery  crowned  with  wreaths  of  green. 
And  done  to  death  by  felon  hand 
For  guarding  well  his  father's  land. 


Be  naught  but  quarter,  hang,  and  slay  !  — 
Thou  frown'st,  De  Argentine,  —  my  gage 
Is  prompt  to  prove  the  strife  I  wage.' 

XXVII. 

'  Nor  deem,'  said  stout  Dunvegan's  knight 
'That  thou  shalt  brave  alone  the  fight! 
By  saints  of  isle  and  mainland  both, 
By  Woden  wild  —  my  grandsire's  oath  — 
Let  Rome  and  England  do  their  worst, 
Howe'er  attainted  or  accursed, 
If  Bruce  shall  e'er  find  friends  again 
Once  more  to  brave  a  battle-plain, 


382 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL   WORKS. 


If  Douglas  couch  again  his  lance, 

Or  Randolph  dare  another  chance, 

Old  Torquil  will  not  be  to  lack 

With  twice  a  thousand  at  his  back.  — 

Nay,  chafe  not  at  my  bearing  bold, 

Good  abbot !  for  thou  know'st  of  old, 

Torquil's  rude  thought  and  stubborn  will 

Smack  of  the  wild  Norwegian  still ; 

Nor  will  I  barter  Freedom's  cause 

For  England's  wealth  or  Rome's  applause.' 

XXVIII. 

The  abbot  seemed  with  eye  severe 

The  hardy  chieftain's  speech  to  hear ; 

Then  on  King  Robert  turned  the  monk, 

But  twice  his  courage  came  and  sunk, 

Confronted  with  the  hero's  look  : 

Twice  fell  his  eye,  his  accents  shook  ; 

At  length,  resolved  in  tone  and  brow, 

Sternly  he  questioned  him  —  '  And  thou, 

Unhappy  !  what  hast  thou  to  plead, 

Why  I  denounce  not  on  thy  deed 

That  awful  doom  which  canons  tell 

Shuts  paradise  and  opens  hell ; 

Anathema  of  power  so  dread 

It  blends  the  living  with  the  dead, 

Bids  each  good  angel  soar  away 

And  every  ill  one  claim  his  prey ; 

Expels  thee  from  the  church's  care 

And  deafens  Heaven  against  thy  prayer ; 

Arms  every  hand  against  thy  life, 

Bans  all  who  aid  thee  in  the  strife, 

Nay,  each  whose  succor,  cold  and  scant, 

With  meanest  alms  relieves  thy  want ; 

Haunts  thee  while  living,  —  and  when  dead 

Dwells  on  thy  yet  devoted  head, 

Rends  Honor's  scutcheon  from  thy  hearse, 

Stills  o'er  thy  bier  the  holy  verse, 

And    spurns    thy   corpse    from    hallowed 

ground, 
Flung  like  vile  carrion  to  the  hound : 
Such  is  the  dire  and  desperate  doom 
For  sacrilege,  decreed  by  Rome  ; 
And  such  the  well-deserved  meed 
Of  thine  unhallowed,  ruthless  deed.' 

XXIX. 

'Abbot !'  the  Bruce  replied,  'thy  charge 

It  boots  not  to  dispute  at  large. 

This  much,  howe'er,  I  bid  thee  know, 

No  selfish  vengeance  dealt  the  blow, 

For  Comyn  died  his  country's  foe. 

Nor  blame  I  friends  whose  ill-timed  speed 

Fulfilled  my  soon-repented  deed, 

Nor  censure  those  from  whose  stern  tongue 

The  dire  anathema  has  rung. 

I  only  blame  mine  own  wild  ire, 

I5y  Scotland's  wrongs  incensed  to  fire. 

Heaven  knows  my  purpose  to  atone, 

Far  as  I  may,  the  evil  done, 


And  hears  a  penitent's  appeal 
From  papal  curse  and  prelate's  zeal. 
My  first  and  dearest  task  achieved, 
Fair  Scotland  from  her  thrall  relieved, 
Shall  many  a  priest  in  cope  and  stole 
Say  requiem  for  Red  Comyn's  soul, 
While  I  the  blessed  cross  advance 
And  expiate  this  unhappy  chance 
In  Palestine  with  sword  and  lance. 
But,  while  content  the  Church  should  know 
My  conscience  owns  the  debt  I  owe, 
Unto  De  Argentine  and  Lorn 
The  name  of  traitor  I  return, 
Bid  them  defiance  stern  and  high, 
And  give  them  in  their  throats  the  lie  ! 
These  brief  words  spoke,  I  speak  no  more. 
Do  what  thou  wilt ;  my  shrift  is  o'er.' 

XXX. 

Like  man  by  prodigy  amazed, 
Upon  the  king  the  abbot  gazed  ; 
Then  o'er  his  pallid  features  glance 
Convulsions  of  ecstatic  trance. 
His  breathing  came  more  thick  and  fast, 
And  from  his  pale  blue  eyes  were  cast 
Strange  rays  of  wild  and  wandering  light ; 
Uprise  his' locks  of  silver  white, 
Flushed  is  his  brow,  through  every  vein 
In  azure  tide  the  currents  strain, 
And  undistinguished  accents  broke 
The  awful  silence  ere  he  spoke. 

XXXI. 

'  De  Bruce  !  I  rose  with  purpose  dread 

To  speak  my  curse  upon  thy  head, 

And  give  thee  as  an  outcast  o'er 

To  him  who  burns  to  shed  thy  gore  ;  — 

But,  like  the  Midianite  of  old 

Who  stood  on  Zophim,  Heaven-controlled. 

I  feel  within  mine  aged  breast 

A  power  that  will  not  be  repressed. 

It  prompts  my  voice,  it  swells  my  veins, 

It  burns,  it  maddens,  it  constrains  !  — 

De  Bruce,  thy  sacrilegious  blow 

Hath  at  God's  altar  slain  thy  foe  : 

O'ermastered  yet  by  high  behest, 

I  bless  thee,  and  thou  shalt  be  blessed  ! ' 

He  spoke,  and  o'er  the  astonished  throng 

Was  silence,  awful,  deep,  and  long. 

XXXII. 

Again  that  light  has  fired  his  eye, 
Again  his  form  swells  bold  and  high, 
The  broken,voice  of  age  is  gone, 
'T  is  vigorous  manhood's  lofty  tone  : 
'  Thrice  vanquished  on  the  battle-plain, 
Thy  followers  slaughtered,  fled,  or  ta'en, 
A  hunted  wanderer  on  the  wild, 
On  foreign  shores  a  man  exiled, 


THE  LORD   OF   THE  ISLES. 


383 


Disowned,  deserted,  and  distressed, 
I  bless  thee,  and  thou  shalt  be  blessed ! 
Blessed  in  the  hall  and  in  the  field, 
Under  the  mantle  as  the  shield. 
Avenger  of  thy  country's  shame, 
Restorer  of  her  injured  fame, 
Blessed  in  thy  sceptre  and  thy  sword, 
De  Bruce,  fair  Scotland's  rightful  lord, 
Blessed  in  thy  deeds  and  in  thy  fame, 
What  lengthened  honors  wait  thy  name 
In  distant  ages  sire  to  son 
Shall  tell  thy  tale  of  freedom  won, 
And  teach  his  infants  in  the  use 
Of  earliest  speech  to  falter  Bruce. 
Go,  then,  triumphant !  sweep  along 


Thy  course,  the  theme  of  many  a  song ! 
The  Power  whose  dictates  swell  my  breast 
Hath    blessed    thee,   and    thou    shalt  be 

blessed !  — 
Enough  —  my  short-lived  strength  decays, 
And  sinks  the  momentary  blaze.  — 
Heaven  hath  our  destined  purpose  broke, 
Not  here  must  nuptial  vow  be  spoke ; 
Brethren,  our  errand  here  is  o'er, 
Our  task  discharged.  —  Unmoor,  unmoor  ! ' 
His  priests  received  the  exhausted  monk, 
As  breathless  in  their  arms  he  sunk. 
Punctual  his  orders  to  obey, 
The  train  refused  all  longer  stay, 
Embarked,  raised  sail,  and  bore  away. 


Cjje  Hortj  of  tfje  Isles. 

CANTO   THIRD. 


Hast  thou  not  marked  when  o'er  thy  startled  head 
Sudden  and  deep  the  thunder-peal  has  rolled, 
How,  when  its  echoes  fell,  a  silence  dead 
Sunk  on  the  wood,  the  meadow,  and  the  wold  ? 
The  rye-grass  shakes  not  on  the  sod-built  fold, 
The  rustling  aspen's  leaves  are  mute  and  still, 
The  wall-flower  waves  not  on  the  ruined  hold, 
Till,  murmuring  distant  first,  then  near  and  shrill, 
The  savage  whirlwind  wakes  and  sweeps  the  groaning  hill. 


Artornish  !  such  a  silence  sunk 
Upon  thy  halls,  when  that  gray  monk 

His  prophet-speech  had  spoke  : 
And  his  obedient  brethren's  sail 
Was  stretched  to  meet  the  southern  gale 

Before  a  whisper  woke. 
Then  murmuring  sounds  of  doubt  and  fear, 
Close  poured  in  many  an  anxious  ear, 

The  solemn  stillness  broke  ; 
And  still  they  gazed  with  eager  guess 
Where  in  an  oriel's  deep  recess 
The  Island  Prince  seemed  bent  to  press 
What  Lorn,  by  his  impatient  cheer 
And  gesture  fierce,  scarce  deigned  to  hear. 

in. 

Starting  at  length  with  frowning  look, 
His  hand  he  clenched,  his  head  he  shook, 

And  sternly  flung  apart : 
1  And  deem'st  thou  me  so  mean  of  mood 
As  to  forget  the  mortal  feud, 
And  clasp  the  hand  with  blood  imbrued 

From  my  dear  kinsman's  heart  ? 


Is  this  thy  rede  ?  —  a  due  return 

For  ancient  league  and  friendship  sworn  ! 

But  well  our  mountain  proverb  shows 

The  faith  of  Islesmen  ebbs  and  flows. 

Be  it  even  so  —  believe  ere  long 

He  that  now  bears  shall  wreak  the  wrong.  — 

Call  Edith  —  call  the  Maid  of  Lorn  ! 

My  sister,  slaves  !  —  for  further  scorn, 

Be  sure  nor  she  nor  I  will  stay.  — 

Away,  De  Argentine,  away  !  — 

We  nor  ally  nor  brother  know 

In  Bruce's  friend  or  England's  foe.' 

IV. 

But  who  the  chieftain's  rage  can  tell 
When,  sought  from  lowest  dungeon  cell 
To  highest  tower  the  castle  round, 
No  Lady  Edith  was  there  found  ! 
He  shouted,  '  Falsehood  !  —  treachery !  — 
Revenge  and  blood  !  —  a  lordly  meed 
To  him  that  will  avenge  the  deed ! 
A  baron's  lands  ! '  —  His  frantic  mood 
Was  scarcely  by  the  news  withstood 
That  Morag  shared  his  sister's  flight, 
And  that  in  hurry  of  the  night, 


3§4 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


"Scaped  noteless  and  without  remark, 
Two  strangers  sought  the  abbot's  bark.  — 
'  Man  every  galley  !  —  fly  —  pursue  ! 
The  priest  his  treachery  shall  rue  ! 
Ay,  and  the  time  shall  quickly  come 
When  we  shall  hear  the  thanks  that  Rome 
Will  pay  his  feigned  prophecy  ! ' 
Such  was  fierce  Lorn's  indignant  cry ; 
And  Cormac  Doil  in  haste  obeyed, 
Hoisted  his  sail,  his  anchor  weighed  — 
For,  glad  of  each  pretext  for  spoil, 
A  pirate  sworn  was  Cormac  Doil. 
But  others,  lingering,  spoke  apart, 
'  The  maid  has  given  her  maiden  heart 

To  Ronald  of  the  Isles, 
And,  fearful  lest  her  brother's  word 
Bestow  her  on  that  English  lord, 

She  seeks  Iona's  piles, 
And  wisely  deems  it  best  to  dwell 
A  votaress  in  the  holy  cell 
Until  these  feuds  so  fierce  and  fell 

The  abbot  reconciles.' 


As,  impotent  of  ire,  the  hall 
Echoed  to  Lorn's  impatient  call  — 
'  My  horse,  my  mantle,  and  my  train ! 
Let  none  who  honors  Lorn  remain  ! '  — 
Courteous  but  stern,  a  bold  request 
To  Bruce  De  Argentine  expressed : 
'  Lord  Earl,'  he  said,  « I  cannot  chuse 
But  yield  such  title  to  the  Bruce, 
-  Though  name  and  earldom  both  are  gone 
Since  he  braced  rebel's  armor  on  — 
But,  earl  or  serf  —  rude  phrase  was  thine 
Of  late,  and  launched  at  Argentine ; 
Such  as  compels  me  to  demand 
Redress  of  honor  at  thy  hand. 
We  need  not  to  each  other  tell 
That  both  can  wield  their  weapons  well ; 
Then  do  me  but  the  soldier  grace 
This  glove  upon  thy  helm  to  plac 

Where  we  may  meet  in  fight ; 
And  I  will  say,  as  still  I  've  said, 
Though  by  ambition  far  misled^ 
Thou  art  a  noble  knight.' 

VI. 

'And  [,'  the  princely  Bruce  replied, 
'  Might  term  it  stain  on  knighthood's  pride 
That  the  bright  sword  of  Argentine 
Should  in  a  tyrant's  quarrel  shine  ; 

But,  for  your  brave  request, 
Be  sure  the  honored  pledge  you  gave 
In  every  battle-field  shall  wave 

Upon  my  helmet-crest ; 
Believe  that  if  my  hasty  tongue 
Hath  done  thine  honor  causeless  wrong, 

It  shall  be  well  redressed. 


Not  dearer  to  my  soul  was  glove 
Bestowed  in  youth  by  lady's  love 

Than  this  which  thou  hast  given  ! 
Thus  then  my  noble  foe  I  greet ; 
Health  and  high  fortune  till  we  meet, 

And  then  —  what  pleases  Heaven.' 


Thus  parted  they  —  for  now,  with  sound 
Like  waves  rolled  back  from  rocky  ground. 

The  friends  of  Lorn  retire  ; 
Each  mainland  chieftain  with  his  train 
Draws  to  his  mountain  towers  again, 
Pondering  how  mortal  schemes  prove  vain 

And  mortal  hopes  expire. 
But  through  the  castle  double  guard 
By  Ronald's  charge  kept  wakeful  ward, 
Wicket  and  gate  were  trebly  barred 

By  beam  and  bolt  and  chain ; 
Then  of  the  guests  in  courteous  sort 
He  prayed  excuse  for  mirth  broke  short, 
And  bade  them  in  Artornish  fort 

In  confidence  remain. 
Now  torch  and  menial  tendance  led 
Chieftain  and  knight  to  bower  and  bed, 
And  beads  were  told  and  Aves  said, 

And  soon  they  sunk  away 
Into  such  sleep  as  wont  to  shed 
Oblivion  on  the  weary  head 

After  a  toilsome  day. 

VIII. 

But  soon  uproused,  the  monarch  cried 
To  Edward  slumbering  by  his  side, 

'  Awake,  or  sleep  for  aye  ! 
Even  now  there  jarred  a  secret  door  — 
A  taper-light  gleams  on  the  floor  — 

Up,  Edward  !  up,  I  say  ! 
Some  one  glides  in  like  midnight  ghost  — 
Nay,  strike  not !  't  is  our  noble  host.' 
Advancing  then  his  taper's  flame, 
Ronald  stept  forth,  and  with  him  came 

Dunvegan's  chief  —  each  bent  the  knee 

To  Bruce  in  sign  of  fealty 
And  proffered  him  his  sword, 

And  hailed  him  in  a  monarch's  style 

As  king  of  mainland  and  of  isle 
And  Scotland's  rightful  lord. 
'  And  O,'  said  Ronald,  *  Owned  of  Heaven  ! 
Say,  is  my  erring  youth  forgiven, 
By  falsehood's  arts  from  duty  driven, 

Who  rebel  falchion  drew, 
Yet  ever  to  thy  deeds  of  fame, 
Even  while  I  strove  against  thy  claim, 

Paid  homage  just  and  true  ? '  — 
'  Alas  !  dear  youth,  the  unhappy  time,' 
Answered  the  Bruce,  '  must  bear  the  crime 

Since,  guiltier  far  than  you, 
Even  I  '  —  he  paused  ;  for  Falkirk's  woes 
Upon  his  conscious  soul  arose. 


THE  LORD   OF   THE  ISLES. 


385 


The  chieftain  to  his  breast  he  pressed, 
And  in  a  sigh  concealed  the  rest. 

IX. 

They  proffered  aid  by  arms  and  might 

To  repossess  him  in  his  right ; 

But  well  their  counsels  must  be  weighed 

Ere  banners  raised  and  musters  made. 

For  English  hire  and  Lorn's  intrigues 

Bound  many  chiefs  in  southern  leagues. 

In  answer  Bruce  his  purpose  bold 

To  his  new  vassals  frankly  told  : 

'  The  winter  worn  in  exile  o'er, 

I  longed  for  Carrick's  kindred  shore. 

I  thought  upon  my  native  Ayr 

And  longed  to  see  the  burly  fare 

That  Clifford  makes,  whose  lordly  call 

Now  echoes  through  my  father's  hall. 

But  first  my  course  to  Arran  led 

Where  valiant  Lennox  gathers  head, 

And  on  the  sea  by  tempest  tossed, 

Our  barks  dispersed,  our  purpose  crossed, 

Mine  own,  a  hostile  sail  to  shun, 

Far  from  her  destined  course  had  run, 

When  that  wise  will  which  masters  ours 

Compelled  us  to  your  friendly  towers.' 


Then   Torquil   spoke :   '  The    time   craves 

speed  ! 
We  must  not  linger  in  our  deed, 
But  instant  pray  our  sovereign  liege 
To  shun  the  perils  of  a  siege. 
The  vengeful  Lorn  with  all  his  powers 
Lies  but  too  near  Artornish  towers, 
And  England's  light-armed  vessels  ride 
Not  distant  far  the  waves  of  Clyde, 
Prompt  at  these  tidings  to  unmoor,        ♦ 
And   sweep   each   strait   and    guard   each 

shore. 
Then,  till  this  fresh  alarm  pass  by, 
Secret  and  safe  my  liege  must  lie 
In  the  far  bounds  of  friendly  Skye, 
Torquil  thy  pilot  and  thy  guide.'  — 
'  Not  so,  brave  chieftain,'  Ronald  cried ; 
•  Myself  will  on  my  sovereign  wait, 
And  raise  in  arms  the  men  of  Sleate, 
Whilst  thou,  renowned  where  chiefs  debate, 
Shalt  sway  their  souls  by  council  sage 
And  awe  them  by  thy  locks  of  age.'  — 
'  And  if  my  words  in  weight  shall  fail, 
This  ponderous  sword  shall  turn  the  scale.' 

XI. 

'The   scheme,'  said  Bruce,  'contents  me 

well ; 
Meantime,  't  were  best  that  Isabel 
For  safety  with  my  bark  and  crew 


Again  to  friendly  Erin  drew. 
There  Edward  too  shall  with  her  wend, 
In  need  to  cheer  her  and  defend 
And  muster  up  each  scattered  friend." 
Here  seemed  it  as  Lord  Ronald's  ear 
Would  other  counsel  gladlier  hear; 
But,  all  achieved  as  soon  as  planned, 
Both  barks,  in  secret  armed  and  manned, 

From  out  the  haven  bore  ; 
On  different  voyage  forth  they  ply, 
This  for  the  coast  of  winged  Skye 

And  that  for  Erin's  shore. 

XII. 

With  Bruce  and  Ronald  bides  the  tale.  — 
To  favoring  winds  they  gave  the  sail 
Till  Mull's  dark  headlands  scarce  they  knew 
And  Ardnamurchan's  hills  were  blue. 
But  then  the  squalls  blew  close  and  hard, 
And,  fain  to  strike  the  galley's  yard 

And  take  them  to  the  oar, 
With  these  rude  seas  in  weary  plight 
They  strove  the  livelong  day  and  night, 
Nor  till  the  dawning  had  a  sight 
Of  Skye's  romantic  shore. 
Where  Coolin  stoops  him  to  the  west, 
They  saw  upon  his  shivered  crest' 

The  sun's  arising  gleam; 
But  such  the  labor  and  delay, 
Ere  they  were  moored  in  Scavigh  bay  — 
For  calmer  heaven  compelled  to  stay  — ■ 

He  shot  a  western  beam. 
Then  Ronald  said,  '  If -true  mine  eye, 
These  are  the  savage  wilds  that  lie 
North  of  Strathnardill  and  Dunskye  ; 

No  human  foot  comes  here, 
And,  since  these  adverse  breezes  blow, 
If  my  good  liege  love  hunter's  bow, 
What  hinders  that  on  land  we  go 

And  strike  a  mountain-deer? 
Allan,  my  page,  shall  with  us  wend  ; 
A  bow  full  deftly  can  he  bend, 
And,  if  we  meet  a  herd,  may  send 

A  shaft  shall  mend  our  cheer.' 
Then  each  took  bow  and  bolts  in  hand, 
Their  row-boat  launched  and  leapt  to  land, 

And  left  their  skiff  and  train, 
Where  a  wild  stream  with  headlong  shock 
Came  brawling  down  its  bed  of  rock 

To  mingle  with  the  main. 

XIII. 

Awhile  their  route  they  silent  made, 
As  men  who  stalk  for  mountain-deer, 

Till  the  good  Bruce  to  Ronald  said,  — 
*  Saint  Mary  !  what  a  scene  is  here  ! 

I  've  traversed  many  a  mountain-strand, 

Abroad  and  in  my  native  land, 

And  it  has  been  my  lot  to  tread 


25 


386 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL    WORKS. 


Where  safety  more  than  pleasure  led ; 
Thus,  many  a  waste  I  've  wandered  o'er, 
Clomb  many  a  crag,  crossed  many  a  moor, 

But,  by  my  halidome, 
A  scene  so  rude,  so  wild  as  this, 
Yet  so  sublime  in  barrenness, 
Ne'er  did  my  wandering  footsteps  press 

Where'er  I  happed  to  roam.' 

XIV. 

No  marvel  thus  the  monarch  spake  ; 

For  rarely  human  eye  has  known 
A  scene  so  stern  as  that  dread  lake 

With  its  dark  ledge  of  barren  stone. 
Seems  that  primeval  earthquake's  sway 
Hath  rent  a  strange  and  shattered  way 

Through  the  rude  bosom  of  the  hill, 
And  that  each  naked  precipice, 
Sable  ravine,  and  dark  abyss, 

Tells  of  the  outrage  still. 
The  wildest  glen  but  this  can  show 
Some  touch  of  Nature's  genial  glow ; 
On  high  Benmore  green.mosses  grow, 
And  heath-bells  bud  in  deep  Glencroe, 

And  copse  on  Cruchan-Ben ; 
But  here,  —  above,  around,  below, 

On  mountain  or  in  glen, 
Nor  tree,  nor  shrub,  nor  plant,  nor  flower, 
Nor  aught  of  vegetative  power, 

The  weary  eye  may  ken. 
For  all  is  rocks  at  random  thrown, 
Black   waves,   bare   crags,   and   banks   of 
stone, 

As  if  were  here  denied 
The  summer  sun,  the  spring's  sweet  dew, 
That  clothe  with  many  a  varied  hue 

The  bleakest  mountain-side. 


And  wilder,  forward  as  they  wound, 
Were  the  proud  cliffs  and  lake  profound. 
Huge  terraces  of  granite  black 
Afforded  rude  and  cumbered  track ; 

For  from  the  mountain  hoar, 
Hurled  headlong  in  some  night  of  fear, 
When  yelled  the  wolf  and  fled  the  deer, 

Loose  crags  had  toppled  o'er; 
And  some,  chance-poised  and  balanced,  lay 
So  that  a  stripling  arm  might  sway 

A  mass  no  host  could  raise, 
In  Nature's  rage  at  random  thrown 
Yet  trembling  like  the  Druid's  stone 

On  its  precarious  base. 
The  evening  mists  with  ceaseless  change 
Now  clothed  the  mountains'  lofty  range, 

Now  left  their  foreheads  bare, 
And  round  the  skirts  their  mantle  furled, 
Or  on  the  sable  waters  curled, 
Or  on  the  eddying  breezes  whirled, 

Dispersed  in  middle  air. 


And  oft  condensed  at  once  they  lower 
When,  brief  and  fierce,  the  mountain  shower 

Pours  like  a  torrent  down, 
And  when  return  the  sun's  glad  beams, 
Whitened  with  foam  a  thousand  streams 

Leap  from  the  mountain's  crown. 


1  This  lake,'  said    Bruce,     whose  barriers 

drear 
Are  precipices  sharp  and  sheer, 
Yielding  no  track  for  goat  or  deer 

Save  the  black  shelves  we  tread, 
How  term  you  its  dark  waves  ?  and  how 
Yon  northern  mountain's  pathless  brow. 

And  yonder  peak  of  dread 
That  to  the  evening  sun  uplifts 
The  griesly  gulfs  and  slaty  rifts 

Which  seam  its  shivered  head?  '  — 
'  Coriskin  call  the  dark  lake's  name, 
Coolin  the  ridge,  as  bards  proclaim, 
From  old  Cuchullin,  chief  of  fame. 
But  bards,  familiar  in  our  isles 
Rather  with  Nature's  frowns  than  smiles, 
Full  oft  their  careless  humors  please 
By  sportive  names  from  scenes  like  these. 
I  would  old  Torquil  were  to  show 
His  Maidens  with  their  breasts  of  snow, 
Or  that  my  noble  liege  were  nigh 
To  hear  his  Nurse  sing  lullaby  !  — 
The  Maids  —  tall  cliffs  with  breakers  white, 
The  Nurse  —  a  torrent's  roaring  might  — 
Or  that  your  eye  could  see  the  mood 
Of  Corryvrekin's  whirlpool  rude, 
When  dons  the  Hag  her  whitened  hood  — 
'T  is  thus  our  islesmen's  fancy  frames 
For  scenes  so  stern  fantastic  names.' 

XVII. 

Answered  the  Bruce,  '  And  musing  mind 

Might  here  a  graver  moral  find. 

These  mighty  cliffs  that  heave  on  high 

Their  naked  brows  to  middle  sky, 

Indifferent  to  the  sun  or  snow, 

Where  naught  can  fade  and   naught  can 

blow, 
May  they  not  mark  a  monarch's  fate, — 
Raised  high  mid  storms  of  strife  and  state. 
Beyond  life's  lowlier  pleasures  placed, 
His  soul  a  rock,  his  heart  a  waste? 
O'er  hope  and  love  and  fear  aloft 
High  rears  his  crowned  head  —  But  soft  ! 
Look,  underneath  yon  jutting  crag 
Are  hunters  and  a  slaughtered  stag. 
Who  may  they  be  ?     But  late  you  said 
No  steps  these  desert  regions  tread?'  — 

XVIII. 

1  So  said  I  — and  believed  in  sooth,' 
Ronald  replied,  '  I  spoke  the  truth. 


THE   LORD   OF   THE  ISLES. 


387 


Yet  now  I  spy,  by  yonder  stone, 

Five  men  —  they  mark  us  and  come  on  : 

And  by  their  badge  on  bonnet  borne 

I  guess  them  of  the  land  of  Lorn, 

Foes  to  my  liege.'  —  '  So  let  it  be  ; 

I  've  faced  worse  odds  than  five  to  three  — 

But  the  poor  page  can  little  aid  ; 

Then  be  our  battle  thus  arrayed, 

If  our  free  passage  they  contest ; 

Cope  thou  with  two,  I  '11  match  the  rest.'  — 

'  Not  so,  my  liege  —  for,  by  my  life, 

This  sword  shall  meet  the  treble  strife  ; 

My  strength,  my  skill  in  arms,  more  small, 

And  less  the  loss  should  Ronald  fall. 

But  islesmen  soon  to  soldiers  grow, 

Allan  has  sword  as  well  as  bow, 

And  were  my  monarch's  order  given, 

Two  shafts  should  make  our  number  even.'  — 

'  No !  not  to  save  my  life  ! '  he  said  ; 

'  Enough  of  blood  rests  on  my  head 

Too  rashly  spilled  —  we  soon  shall  know, 

Whether  they  come  as  friend  or  foe.' 


Nigh  came  the  strangers  and  more  nigh  ;- 
Still  less  they  pleased  the  monarch's  eye. 
Men  were  they  all  of  evil  mien, 
Down-looked,  unwilling  to  be  seen  ; 
They  moved  with  half-resolved  pace, 
And  bent  on  earth  each  gloomy  face. 
The  foremost  two  were  fair  arrayed 


With  brogue  and  bonnet,  trews  and  plaid, 
And  bore  the  arms  of  mountaineers, 
Daggers  and  broadswords,  bows  and  spears. 
The  three  that  lagged  small  space  behind 
Seemed  serfs  of  more  degraded  kind ; 
Goat-skins  or  deer-hides  o'er  them  cast 
Made  a  rude  fence  against  the  blast ; 
Their  arms  and  feet  and  heads  were  bare, 
Matted  their  beards,  unshorn  their  hair; 
For  arms  the  caitiffs  bore  in  hand 
A  club,  an  axe,  a  rusty  brand. 

xx. 

Onward  still  mute,  they  kept  the  track;  — 
'  Tell  who  ye  be,  or  else  stand  back,' 
Said  Bruce  ;    '  in  deserts  when  they  meet, 
Men  pass  not  as  in  peaceful  street.' 
Still  at  his  stern  command  they  stood, 
And  proffered  greeting  brief  and  rude, 
But  acted  courtesy  so  ill 
As  seemed  of  fear  and  not  of  will. 
'  Wanderers  we  are,  as  you  may  be ; 
Men  hither  driven  by  wind  and  sea, 
Who,  if  you  list  to  taste  our  cheer, 
Will  share  with  you  this  fallow  deer.' ; — 
'  If  from  the  sea,  where  lies  your  bark  ?  ■  — 
'  Ten  fathom  deep  in  ocean  dark ! 
Wrecked  yesternight :  but  we  are  men 
Who  little  sense  of  peril  ken. 
The  shades  come  down  —  the  day  is  shut  — 
Will  you  go  with  us  to  our  hut  ? '  — 


;88 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL    WORKS. 


*  Our  vessel  waits  us  in  the  bay ; 
Thanks  for  your  proffer — have  good-day.'  — 
'  Was  that  your  galley,  then,  which  rode 
Not  far  from  shore  when  evening  glowed  ? ' — 

•  It  was."  —  '  Then  spare  your  needless  pain, 
There  will  she  now  be  sought  in  vain. 

We  saw  her  from  the  mountain  head 
When,  with  Saint  George's  blazon  red 
A  southern  vessel  bore  in  sight, 
And  yours  raised  sail  and  took  to  flight.'  — 

XXI. 

1  Now,  by  the  rood,  unwelcome  news  ! ' 
Thus  with  Lord  Ronald  communed  Bruce ; 
'  Nor  rests  there  light  enough  to  show 
If  this  their  tale  be  true  or  no. 
The  men  seem  bred  of  churlish  kind, 
Yet  mellow  nuts  have  hardest  rind ; 
We  will  go  with  them  —  f©od  and  fire 
And  sheltering  roof  our  wants  require. 
Sure  guard  'gainst  treachery  will  we  keep, 
And  watch  by  turns  our  comrades'  sleep.  — 
Good  fellows,  thanks  ;  your  guests  we  '11  be, 
And  well  will  pay  the  courtesy. 
Come,  lead  us  where  your  lodging  lies  — 
Nay,  soft !  we  mix  not  companies.  — 
Show  us  the  path  o'er  crag  and  stone, 
And  we  will  follow  you  ;  —  lead  on.' 

XXII. 

They  reached  the  dreary  cabin,  made 
Of  sails  against  a  rock  displayed, 

And  there  on  entering  found 
A  slender  boy,  whose  form  and  mien 
111  suited  with  such  savage  scene, 
In  cap  and  cloak  of  velvet  green, 

Low  seated  on  the  ground. 
1  lis  garb  was  such  as  minstrels  wear, 
Dark  was  his  hue,  and  dark  his  hair, 
His  youthful  cheek  was  marred  by  care, 

His  eyes  in  sorrow  drowned. 

•  Whence   this   poor  boy  ?  "  —  As    Ronald 

spoke, 
The  voice  his  trance  of  anguish  broke  ; 
As  it  awaked  from  ghastly  dream, 
He  raised  his  head  with  start  and  scream, 

And  wildly  gazed  around; 
Then  to  the  wall  his  face  he  turned, 
And  his  dark  neck  with  blushes  burned. 

win. 

•  Whose  is  the  boy?'  again  he  said. 

•  By  chance  of  war  our  captive  made; 
He  may  be  yours,  if  you  should  hold 

'I  hat  music   has  more  charms  than  gold; 
For, though  from  earliest  childhoocknute, 

The  lad  cm  deftly  touch  the  lute, 
Ami  <>n  tin-  rote  and  viol  play, 
And  well  can  drive  the  linn-  away 


For  those  who  love  such  glee  ; 

For  me  the  favoring  breeze,  when  loud 

It  pipes  upon  the  galley's  shroud, 
Makes  blither  melody.'  — 
'  Hath  he,  then,  sense  of  spoken  sound  ? '  — 

'  Ay  ;   so  his  mother  bade  us  know, 
A  crone  in  our  late  shipwreck  drowned, 

And  hence  the  silly  stripling's  woe. 
More  of  the  youth  I  cannot  say, 
Our  captive  but  since  yesterday ; 
When  wind  and  weather  waxed  so  grim, 
We  little  listed  think  of  him.  — 
But  why  waste  time  in  idle  words  ? 
Sit  to  your  cheer  —  unbelt  your  swords.' 
Sudden  the  captive  turned  his  head, 
And  one  quick  glance  to  Ronald  sped. 
It  was  a  keen  and  warning  look, 
And  well  the  chief  the  signal  took. 

xxiv. 
'  Kind  host,'  he  said,  '  our  needs  require 
A  separate  board  and  separate  fire ; 
For  know  that  on  a  pilgrimage 
Wend  I,  my  comrade,  and  this  page. 
And,  sworn  to  vigil  and  to  fast 
Long  as  this  hallowed  task*shall  last, 
We  never  doff  the  plaid  or  sword, 
Or  feast  us  at  a  stranger's  board, 
And  never  share  one  common  sleep, 
But  one  must  still  his  vigil  keep. 
Thus,  for  our  separate  use,  good  friend, 
We  '11  hold  this  hut's  remoter  end.'  — 
'  A  churlish  vow,'  the  elder  said, 
'  And  hard,  methinks,  to  be  obeyed. 
How  say  you,  if,  to  wreak  the  scorn 
That  pays  our  kindness  harsh  return, 
We  should  refuse  to  share  our  meal  ? '  — 
'  Then  say  we  that  our  swords  are  steel ! 
And  our  vow  binds  us  not  to  fast 
Where  gold  or  force  may  buy  repast.'  — 
Their  host's  dark  brow  grew  keen  and  fell. 
His  teeth  are  clenched,  his  features  swell ; 
Yet  "sunk  the  felon's  moody  ire 
Before  Lord  Ronald's  glance  of  fire, 
Nor  could  his  craven  courage  brook 
The  monarch's  calm  and  dauntless  look. 
With  laugh  constrained  —  '  Let  every  man 
Follow  the  fashion  of  his  clan ! 
Each  to  his  separate  quarters  keep. 
And  feed  or  fast,  or  wake  or  sleep.' 

xxv. 
Their  fire  at  separate  distance  burns, 
By  turns  they  eat,  keep  guard  by  turns : 
For  evil  seemed  that  old  man's  eye, 
Dark  and  designing,  fierce  yet  shy. 
Still  he  avoided  forward  look, 
But  slow  and  circumspectly  took 
A  circling,  never-ceasing  glance, 
By  doubt  and  cunning  marked  at  once, 


THE  LORD   OF   THE  ISLES. 


389 


Which  shot  a  mischief-boding  ray 
From  under  eyebrows  shagged  and  gray. 
The  younger,  too,  who  seemed  his  son, 
Had  that  dark  look  the  timid  shun ; 
The  half-clad  serfs  behind  them  sate, 
And  scowled  a  glare  'twixt  fear  and  hate  — 
Till  all,  as  darkness  onward  crept, 
Couched   down,   and   seemed  to  sleep  or 

slept. 
Nor  he,  that  boy,  whose  powerless  tongue 
Must  trust  his  eyes  to  wail  his  wrong, 
A  longer  watch  of  sorrow  made, 
But  stretched  his  limbs  to  slumber  laid. 

XXVI. 

Not  in  his  dangerous  host  confides 
The  king,  but  wary  watch  provides. 
Ronald  keeps  ward  till  midnight  past, 
Then  wakes  the  king,  young  Allan  last ; 
Thus  ranked,  to  give  the  youthful  page 
The  rest  required  by  tender  age. 
What  is  Lord  Ronald's  wakeful  thought 
To  chase  the  languor  toil  had  brought  ?  — 
For  deem  not  that  he  deigned  to  throw 
Much  care  upon  such  coward  foe  — 
He  thinks  of  lovely  Isabel 
When  at  her  foeman's  feet  she  fell, 
Nor  less  when,  placed  in  princely  selle, 
She  glanced  on  him  with  favoring  eyes 
At  Woodstock  when  he  won  the  prize. 
Nor,  fair  in  joy,  in  sorrow  fair, 
In  pride  of  place  as  mid  despair, 


Must  she  alone  engross  his  care. 
His  thoughts  to  his  betrothed  bride, 
To  Edith,  turn  —  O,  how  decide, 
When  here  his  love  and  heart  are  given, 
And  there  his  faith  stands  plight  to  Heaven ! 
No  drowsy  ward  't  is  his  to  keep, 
For  seldom  lovers  long  for  sleep. 
Till  sung  his  midnight  hymn  the  owl, 
Answered  the  dog-fox  with  his  howl, 
Then  waked  the  king  —  at  his  request, 
Lord  Ronald  stretched  himself  to  rest. 

XXVII. 

What  spell  was  good  King  Robert's,  say, 

To  drive  the  weary  night  away  ? 

His  was  the  patriot's  burning  thought 

Of  freedom's  battle  bravely  fought, 

Of  castles  stormed,  of  cities  freed, 

Of  deep  design  and  daring  deed, 

Of  England's  roses  reft  and  torn, 

And  Scotland's  cross  in  triumph  worn, 

Of  rout  and  rally,  war  and  truce,  — 

As  heroes  think,  so  thought  the  Bruce. 

No  marvel,  mid  such  musings  high 

Sleep  shunned   the   monarch's    thoughtful 

eye. 
Now  over  Coolin's  eastern  head 
The  grayish  light  begins  to  spread, 
The  otter  to  his  cavern  drew, 
And  clamored  shrill  the  wakening  mew; 
Then  watched  the  page  —  to  needful  rest 
The  king  resigned  his  anxious  breast. 


39° 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL   WORKS. 


XXVIII. 

To  Allan's  eyes  was  harder  task 
The  weary  watch  their  safeties  ask. 
He  trimmed  the  fire  and  gave  to  shine 
With  bickering  light  the  splintered  pine  ; 
Then  gazed  awhile  where  silent  laid 
Their  hosts  were  shrouded  by  the  plaid. 
But  little  fear  waked  in  his  mind, 
For  he  was  bred  of  martial  kind, 
And,  if  to  manhood  he  arrive, 
May  match  the  boldest  knight  alive. 
Then  thought  he  of  his  mother's  tower, 
His  little  sister's  greenwood  bower, 
How  there  the  Easter-gambols  pass, 
And  of  Dan  Joseph's  lengthened  mass. 
But  still  before  his  weary  eye 
In  rays  prolonged  the  blazes  die  — 
Again  he  roused  him  —  on  the  lake 
Looked  forth  where  now  the  twilight-flake 
Of  pale  cold  dawn  began  to  wake. 
On  Coolin's  cliffs  the  mist  lay  furled, 
The  morning  breeze  the  lake  had  curled, 
The  short  dark  waves,  heaved  to  the  land, 
With  ceaseless  plash  kissed  cliff  or  sand ;  — 
It  was  a  slumbrous  sound  —  he  turned 
To  tales  at  which  his  youth  had  burned, 
Of  pilgrim's  path  by  demon  crossed, 
Of  sprightly  elf  or  yelling  ghost, 
Of  the  wild  witch's  baneful  cot, 
And  mermaid's  alabaster  grot, 
Who  bathes  her  limbs  in  sunless  well 
Deep  in  Strathaird's  enchanted  cell. 
Thither  in  fancy  rapt  he  flies, 
And  on  his  sight  the  vaults  arise ; 
That  hut's  dark  walls  he  sees  no  more, 
His  foot  is  on  the  marble  floor, 
And  o'er  his  head  the  dazzling  spars 
Gleam  like  a  firmament  of  stars  !  — 
Hark  !  hears  he  not  the  sea-nymph  speak 
I  Kr  anger  in  that  thrilling  shriek  !  — 
No  !  all  too  late,  with  Allan's  dream 
Mingled  the  captive's  warning  scream. 
As  from  the  ground  he  strives  to  start, 
A  ruffian's  dagger  finds  his  heart ! 
Upwards  he  casts  his  dizzy  eyes  — 
Murmurs  his  master's  name  —  and  dies  ! 


XXIX. 

Not  so  awoke  the  king  !  his  hand 
Snatched  from  the  flame  a  knotted  brand, 

nearest  weapon  of  his  wrath  ; 
With  this  be  erossed  the  murderer's  path 
And  vi-nged  voung  Allan  well ! 

red  'main  and  bubbling  blood 
•  1  on  the  half-extinguished  wood, 
The  miscreant  gasped  and  fell  ! 
Nor  rose  in  pent-  the  Island  Lord; 

Caitiff  died  upon  his  sword, 
And  one  beneath  his  grasp  lies  prone 


In  mortal  grapple  overthrown. 
But  while  Lord  Ronald's  dagger  drank 
The  life-blood  from  his  panting  flank. 
The  father-ruffian  of  the  band 
Behind  him  rears  a  coward  hand !  — 

O  for  a  moment's  aid, 
Till  Bruce,  who  deals  no  double  blow. 
Dash  to  the  earth  another  foe, 

Above  his  comrade  laid  !  — 
And  it  is  gained  —  the  captive  sprung 
On  the  raised  arm  and  closely  clung, 

And,  ere  he  shook  him  loose, 
The  mastered  felon  pressed  the  ground. 
And  gasped  beneath  a  mortal  wound, 

While  o'er  him  stands  the  Bruce. 

XXX. 

1  Miscreant !  while  lasts  thy  flitting  spark. 
Give  me  to  know  the  purpose  dark 
That  armed  thy  hand  with  murderous  knife 
Against  off enceless  stranger's  life  ? '  — 
*  No  stranger  thou  ! '  with  accent  fell, 
Murmured  the  wretch  ;  '  I  know  thee  well, 
And  know  thee  for  the  foeman  sworn 
Of  my  high  chief,  the  mighty  Lorn.'  — 
'  Speak  yet  again,  and  speak  the  truth 
For  thy  soul's   sake!  —  from  whence  this 

youth  ? 
His  country,  birth,  and  name  declare, 
And  thus  one  evil  deed  repair.'  — 
'  Vex  me  no  more  !  —  my  blood  runs  cold  — 
No  more  I  know  than  I  have  told. 
We  found  him  in  a  bark  we  sought 
With  different  purpose  —  and  I  thought '  — 
Fate  cut  him  short;  in  blood  and  broil, 
As  he  had  lived,  died  Cormac  Doil. 


Then  resting  on  his  bloody  blade, 
The  valiant  Bruce  to  Ronald  said, 
1  Now  shame  upon  us  both  !  —  that  boy 

Lifts  his  mute  face  to  heaven 
And  clasps  his  hands,  to  testify 
His  gratitude  to  God  on  high 

For  strange  deliverance  given. 
His  speechless  gesture  thanks  hath  paid, 
Which  our  free  tongues  have  left  unsaid  ! 
He  raised  the  youth  with  kindly  word, 
But  marked  him  shudder  at  the  sword : 
He  cleansed  it  from  its  hue  of  death, 
And  plunged  the  weapon  in  its  sheath. 
1  Alas,  poor  child  !  unfitting  part 
Fate  doomed  when  with  so  soft  a  heart 

And  form  so  slight  as  thine 
She  made  thee  first  a  pirate's  slave, 
Then  in  his  stead  a  patron  gave 

Of  wayward  lot  like  mine  ; 
A  landless  prince,  whose  wandering  life 
Is  but  one  scene  of  blood  and  strife  — 


THE   LORD    OF   THE  ISLES. 


391 


Yet  scant  of  friends  the  Bruce  shall  be, 
But  he  '11  find  resting-place  for  thee.  — 
Come,  noble  Ronald  !  o'er  the  dead 
Enough  thy  generous  grief  is  paid, 
And  well  has  Allan's  fate  been  wroke ; 
Come,  wend  we  hence  —  the  day  has  broke. 
Seek  we  our  bark  —  I  trust  the  tale 
Was  false  that  she  had  hoisted  sail.' 


Yet,  ere  they  left  that  charnel-cell, 
The  Island  Lord  bade  sad  farewell 
To  Allan  :  <  Who  shall  tell  this  tale, 
He  said,  '  in  halls  of  Donagaile  ? 
O,  who  his  widowed  mother  tell 


That,  ere  his  bloom,  her  fairest  fell  ?  — 
Rest  thee,  poor  youth  !  and  trust  my  care 
For  mass  and  knell  and  funeral  prayer ; 
While  o'er  those  caitiffs  where  they  lie 
The  wolf  shall  snarl,  the  raven  cry  ! ' 
And  now  the  eastern  mountain's  head 
On  the  dark  lake  threw  lustre  red  ; 
Bright  gleams  of  gold  and  purple  streak 
Ravine  and  precipice  and  peak  — 
So  earthly  power  at  distance  shows  ;    • 
Reveals  his  splendor,  hides  his  woes. 
O'er  sheets  of  granite,  dark  and  broad, 
Rent  and  unequal,  lay  the  road. 
In  sad  discourse  the  warriors  wind, 
And  the  mute  captive  moves  behind. 


Efje  ILortJ   of  tje  foles. 


CANTO   FOURTH. 


Stranger  !  if  e'er  thine  ardent  step  hath  traced 
The  northern  realms  of  ancient  Caledon, 
Where  the  proud  Queen  of  Wilderness  hath  placed 
By  lake  and  cataract  her  lonely  throne, 
Sublime  but  sad  delight  thy  soul  hath  known, 
Gazing  on  pathless  glen  and  mountain  high, 
Listing  where  from  the  cliffs  the  torrents  thrown 
Mingle  their  echoes  with  the  eagle's  cry, 
And  with  the  sounding  lake  and  with  the  moaning  sky 


Yes  !  't  was  sublime,  but  sad.  —  The  loneliness 
Loaded  thy  heart,  the  desert  tired  thine  eye ; 
And  strange  and  awful  fears  began  to  press 
Thy  bosom  with  a  stern  solemnity. 
Then  hast  thou  wished  some  woodman's  cottage  nigh, 
Something  that  showed  of  life,  though  low  and  mean  ; 
Glad  sight,  its  curling  wreath  of  smoke  to  spy, 
Glad  sound,  its  cock's  blithe  carol  would  have  been, 
Or  children  whooping  wild  beneath  the  willows  green. 


Such  are  the  scenes  where  savage  grandeur  wakes 
An  awful  thrill  that  softens  into  sighs  ; 
Such  feelings  rouse  them  by  dim  Rannoch's  lakes, 
In  dark  Glencoe  such  gloomy  raptures  rise  : 
Or  farther,  where  beneath  the  northern  skies 
Chides  wild  Loch-Eribol  his  caverns  hoar  — 
But,  be  the  minstrel  judge,  they  yield  the  prize 
Of  desert  dignity  to  that  dread  shore 
That  sees  grim  Coolin  rise  and  hears  Coriskin  roar. 


392 


scorrs  poetical  works. 


Through  such  wild  scenes  the  champio. 

passed, 
When  bold  halloo  and  bugle-blast 
Upon  the  breeze  came  loud  and  fast. 
'There,'  said  the  Bruce,  'rung  Edward's 

horn ! 
What  can  have  caused  such  brief  return  ? 
And  see,  brave  Ronald,  —  see  him  dart 
O'er  stock  and  stone  like  hunted  hart 
Precipitate,  as  is  the  use, 
In  war  or  sport,  of  Edward  Bruce. 
He  marks  us,  and  his  eager  cry 
Will  tell  his  news  ere  he  be  nigh.' 

in. 

Loud  Edward  shouts,  '  What  make  ye  here. 
Warring  upon  the  mountain-deer, 

When  Scotland  wants  her  king  ? 
A  bark  from  Lennox  crossed  our  track, 
With  her  in  speed  I  hurried  back, 

These  joyful  news  to  bring  — 
The  Stuart  stirs  in  Teviotdale, 
And  Douglas  wakes  his  native  vale ; 
Thy  storm-tossed  fleet  hath  won  its  way 
With  little  loss  to  Brodick-Bay, 
And  Lennox  with  a  gallant  band 
Waits  but  thy  coming  and  command 
To  waft  them  o'er  to  Carrick  strand. 
There   are   blithe   news  !  —  but   mark  the 

close ! 
Edward,  the  deadliest  of  our  foes, 
As  with  his  host  he  northward  passed. 
Hafh  on  the  borders  breathed  his  last.' 


Still  stood  the  Bruce  —  his  steady  cheek 
Was  little  wont  his  joy  to  speak, 
But  then  his  color  rose  :  — 

•  Now,  Scotland !  shortly  shalt  thou  see, 
With  God's  high  will,  thy  children  free 

And  vengeance  on  thy  foes  ! 
Yet  to  no  sense  of  selfish  wrongs, 
Bear  witness  with  me,  Heaven,  belongs 

My  joy  o'er  Edward's  bier; 
I  took  my  knighthood  at  his  hand, 
And  lordship  held  of  him  and  land, 

And  well  may  vouch  it  here, 
That,  blot  the  story  from  his  page 
Of  Scotland  ruined  in  his  rage, 
You  read  a  monarch  brave  and  sage 

And  to  his  people  dear.'  — 

•  Let  London's  burghers  mourn  her  lord 
And  Croydon  monks  his  praise  record,' 

The  eager  Edward  said  ; 
i  il  as  his  own,  my  hate 
Surmounts  the  bounds  of  mortal  fate 

And  dies  not  with  the  dead  ! 
Snch  hate  was  his  on  Solwav's  strand 


When  vengeance  clenched  his  palsied  hand, 
That  pointed  yet  to  Scotland's  land, 

As  his  last  accents  prayed 
Disgrace  and  curse  upon  his  heir 
If  he  one  Scottish  head  should  spare 
Till  stretched  upon  the  bloody  lair 

Each  rebel  corpse  was  laid  ! 
Such  hate  was  his  when  his  last  breath 
Renounced  the  peaceful  house  of  death, 
And  bade  his  bones  to  Scotland's  coast 
Be  borne  by  his  remorseless  host, 
As  if  his  dead  and  stony  eye 
Could  still  enjoy  her  misery  ! 
Such  hate  was  his  —  dark,  deadly,  long ; 
Mine  —  as  enduring,  deep,  and  strong  ! '  — 


1  Let  women,  Edward,  war  with  words, 
With  curses  monks,  but  men  with  swords  : 
Nor  doubt  of  living  foes  to  sate 
Deepest  revenge  and  deadliest  hate. 
Now  to  the  sea !     Behold  the  beach, 
And  see  the  galley's  pendants  stretch 
Their  fluttering  length  down  favoring  gale  ! 
Aboard,  aboard  !  and  hoist  the  sail. 
Hold  we  our  way  for  Arran  first, 
Where  meet  in  arms  our  friends  dispersed  ; 
Lennox  the  loyal,  De  la  Haye, 
And  Boyd  the  bold  in  battle  fray. 
I  long  the  hardy  band  to  head, 
And  see  once  more  my  standard  spread.  — 
Does  noble  Ronald  share  our  course, 
Or  stay  to  raise  his  island  force  ?  '  — 
'  Come  weal,  come  woe,  by  Bruce's  side,' 
Replied  the  chief,  '  will  Ronald  bide. 
And  since  two  galleys  yonder  ride, 
Be  mine,  so  please  my  liege,  dismissed 
To  wake  to  arms  the  clans  of  Uist, 
And  all  who  hear  the  Minche's  roar 
On  the  Long  Island's  lonely  shore. 
The  nearer  Isle's  with  slight  delay 
Ourselves  may  summon  in  our  way ; 
And  soon  on  Arratn's  shore  shall  meet 
With  Torquil's  aid  a  gallant  fleet. 
If  aught  avails  their  chieftain's  hest 
Among  the  islesmen  of  the  west.' 

VI. 

Thus  was  their  venturous  council  said. 
But,  ere  their  sails  the  galleys  spread, 
Coriskin  dark  and  Coolin  high 
Echoed  the  dirge's  doleful  cry. 
Along  that  sable  lake  passed  'slow  — 
Fit  scene  for  such  a  sight  of  woe  — 
The  sorrowing  islesmen  as  they  bore 
The  murdered  Allan  to  the  shore. 
At  every  pause  with  dismal  shout 
Their  coronach  of  grief  rung  out, 
And  ever  when  they  moved  again 
The  pipes  resumed  their  clamorous  strain, 


THE  LORD   OF   THE  ISLES. 


393 


And  with  the  pibroch's  shrilling  wail 
Mourned  the  young  heir  of  Donagaile. 
Round  and  around,  from  cliff  and  cave 
His  answer  stern  old  Coolin  gave, 
Till  high  upon  his  misty  side 
Languished  the  mournful  notes  and  died. 
For  never  sounds  by  mortal  made 
Attained  his  high  and  haggard  head, 
That  echoes  but  the  tempest's  moan 
Or  the  deep  thunder's  rending  groan. 

VII. 

Merrily,  merrily  bounds  the  bark, 

She  bounds  before  the  gale, 
The  mountain  breeze  from  Ben-na-darch 

Is  joyous  in  her  sail ! 
With  fluttering  sound  like  laughter  hoarse 

The  cords  and  canvas  strain, 
The  waves,  divided  by  her  force, 
In  rippling  eddies  chased  her  course, 

As  if  they  laughed  again. 
Not  down  the  breeze  more  blithely  flew, 
Skimming  the  wave,  the  light  sea-mew 

Than  the  gay  galley  bore 
Her  course  upon  that  favoring  wind, 
And  Coolin's  crest  has  sunk  behind 

And  Slapin's  caverned  shore. 
'T  was  then  that  warlike  signals  wake 
Duns'caith's  dark  towers  and  Eisord's  lake, 
And  soon  from  Cavilgarrigh's  head 
Thick    wreaths    of   eddying   smoke   were 
spread ; 


A  summons  these  of  war  and  wrath 
To  the  brave  clans  of  Sleat  and  Strath, 

And  ready  at  the  sight 
Each  warrior  to  his  weapon  sprung 
And  targe  upon  his  shoulder  flung, 

Impatient  for  the  fight. 
Mac-Kinnon's  chief,  in  warfare  gray, 
Had  charge  to  muster  their  array 
And  guide  their  barks  to  Brodick-Bay. 

VIII. 

Signal  of  Ronald's  high  command, 
A  beacon  gleamed  o'er  sea  and  land 
From  Canna's  tower,  that,  steep  and  gray, 
Like  falcon-nest  o'erhangs  the  bay. 
Seek  not  the  giddy  crag  to  climb 
To  view  the  turret  scathed  by  time ; 
It  is  a  task  of  doubt  and  fear 
To  aught  but  goat  or  mountain-deer. 
But  rest  thee  on  the  silver  beach, 
And  let  the  aged  herdsman  teach 

His  tale  of  former  day  ; 
His  cur's  wild  clamor  he  shall  chide, 
And  for  thy  seat  by  ocean's  side 

His  varied  plaid  display ; 
Then  tell  how  with  their  chieftain  came 
In  ancient  times  a  foreign  dame 
To  yonder  turret  gray. 
Stern  was  her  lord's  suspicious  mind 
Who  in  so  rude  a  jail  confined 

So  soft  and  fair  a  thrall ! 
And  oft  when  moon  on  ocean  slept 


394 


scorrs  poetical  works 


That  lovely  lady  sate  and  wept 

Upon  the  castle-wall, 
And  turned  her  eye  to  southern  climes, 
And  thought  perchance  of  happier  times, 
And  touched  her  lute  by  fits,  and  sung 
Wild  ditties  in  her  native  tongue. 
And  still,  when  on  the  cliff  and  bay 
Placid  and  pale  the  moonbeams  play 

And  every  breeze  is  mute 
Upon  the  lone  Hebridean's  ear 
Steals  a  strange  pleasure  mixed  with  fear, 
While  from  that  cliff  he  seems  to  hear 

The  murmur  of  a  lute 
And  sounds  as  of  a  captive  lone 
That    mourns    her    woes    in    tongue    un- 
known. — 
Strange  is  the  tale  —  but  all  too  long 
Already  hath  it  staid  the  song  — 

Yet  who  may  pass  them  by, 
That  crag  and  tower  in  ruins  gray, 
Nor  to  their  hapless  tenant  pay 

The  tribute  of  a  sigh  ? 

ix.  s 

Merrily,  merrily  bounds  the  bark 

O'er  the  broad  ocean  driven, 
Her  path  by  Ronin's  mountains  dark 

The  steersman's  hand  hath  given. 
And  Ronin's  mountains  dark  have  sent 

Their  hunters  to  the  shore, 
And  each  his  ashen  bow  unbent, 

And  gave  his  pastime  o'er, 
And  at  the  Island  Lord's  command 
For  hunting  spear  took  warrior's  brand. 
On  Scooreigg  next  a  warning  light 
Summoned  her  warriors  to  the  fight ; 
A  numerous  race  ere  stern  MacLeod 
O'er  their  bleak  shores  in  vengeance  strode, 
When  all  in  vain  the  ocean-cave 
Its  refuge  to  his  victims  gave. 
The  chief,  relentless  in  his  wrath, 
With  blazing  heath  blockades  the  path ; 
In  dense  and  stifling  volumes  rolled, 
The  vapor  filled  the  caverned  hold  ! 
The  warrior-threat,  the  infant's  plain, 
The  mother's  screams,  were  heard  in  vain : 
The  vengeful  chief  maintains  his  fires 
Till  in  the  vault  a  tribe  expires! 
The  bones  which  strew  that  cavern's  gloom 
Too  well  attest  their  dismal  doom. 


x 
Merrily,  merrily  goes  the  bark 

On  a  breeze  from  the  northward  free, 
So  shoots  through    the  morning  sky 'the 
lark, 
( >r  the  swan  through  the  summer  sea. 
The  Bhores  of  Mull  on  the  eastward  lay, 
And  Ulva  dark  and  Colonsay. 


And  all  the  group  of  islets  gay 

That  guard  famed  Staff  a  round. 
Then  all  unknown  its  columns  rose 
Where  dark  and  undisturbed  repose 

The  cormorant  had  found, 
And  the  shy. seal  had  quiet  home 
And  weltered  in  that  wondrous  dome 
Where,  as  to  shame  the  temples  decked 
By  skill  of  earthly  architect, 
Nature  herself,  it  seemed,  would  raise 
A  minster  to  her  Maker's  praise! 
Not  for  a  meaner  use  ascend 
Her  columns  or  her  arches  bend  ; 
Nor  of  a  theme  less  solemn  tells 
That  mighty  surge  that  ebbs  and  swells, 
And  still,  between  each  awful  pause. 
From  the  high  vault  an  answer  draws 
In  varied  tone  prolonged  and  high 
That  mocks  the  organ's  melody. 
Nor  doth  its  entrance  front  in  vain 
To  old  Iona's  holy  fane, 
That  Nature's  voice  might  seem  to  say, 
'  Well  hast  thou  done,  frail  child  of  clay  ! 
Thy  humble  powers  that  stately  shrine 
Tasked     high    and     hard  —  but    witness 
mine!' 

XI. 

Merrily,  merrily  goes  the  bark, 

Before  the  gale  she  bounds  ; 
So  darts  the  dolphin  from  the  shark, 

Or  the  deer  before  the  hounds. 
They  left  Loch-Tua  on  their  lee, 
And  they  wakened  the  men  of  the  wild 
Tiree, 

And  the  chief  of  the  sandy  Coll : 
They  paused  not  at  Columba's  isle, 
Though  pealed  the  bells  from  the  holy  pile 

With  long  and  measured  toll ; 
No  time  for  matin  or  for  mass, 
And  the  sounds  of  the  holy  summons  pass 

Away  in  the  billows'  roll. 
Lochbuie's  fierce  and  warlike  lord 
Their  signal  saw  and  grasped  his  sword, 
And  verdant  Islay  called  her  host, 
And  the  clans  of  Jura's  rugged  coast 

Lord  Ronald's  call  obey, 
And  Scarba's  isle,  whose  tortured  shore 
Still  rings  to  Corrievreken's  roar, 

And  lonely  Colonsay  ;  — 
Scenes  sung  by  him  who  sings  no  more  ! 
His  bright  and  brief  career  is  o'er, 

And  mute  his  tuneful  strains  ; 
Quenched  is  his  lamp  of  varied  lore 
That  loved  the  light  of  song  to  pour ; 
A  distant  and  a  deadly  shore 

Has  Leyden's  cold  remains  ! 

XII. 

Ever  the  breeze  blows  merrily, 

But  the  galley  ploughs  no  more  the  sea. 


THE   LORD    OF   THE  ISLES. 


395 


Lest,  rounding  wild  Cantyre,  they  meet 
The  southern  foeman's  watchful  fleet, 

They  held  unwonted  way  ; 
Up  Tarbat's  western  lake  they  bore, 
Then  dragged  their  bark  the  isthmus  o'er, 
As  far  as  Kilmaconnel's  shore 

Upon  the  eastern  bay. 
It  was  a  wondrous  sight  to  see 
Topmast  and  pennon  glitter  free, 
High  raised  above  the  greenwood  tree, 
As  on  dry  land  the  galley  moves 
By  cliff  and  copse  and  alder  groves. 
Deep  import  from  that  selcouth  sign 
Did  many  a  mountain  seer  divine, 
For  ancient  legends  told  the  Gael 
That  when  a  royal  bark  should  sail 

O'er  Kilmaconnel  moss 
Old  Albyn  should  in  fight  prevail, 
And  every  foe  should  faint  and  quail 

Before  her  silver  Cross. 

XIII. 

Now  launched  once  more,  the  inland  sea 
They  furrow  with  fair  augury, 

And  steer  for  Arran's  isle  ; 
The  sun,  ere  yet  he  sunk  behind 
Ben-Ghoil,  'tne  Mountain  of  the  Wind,' 
Gave  his  grim  peaks  a  greeting  kind, 

And  bade  Loch  Ranza  smile. 
Thither  their  destined  course  they  drew; 
It  seemed  the  isle  her  monarch  knew, 
So  brilliant  was  the  landward  view, 

The  ocean  so  serene  ; 
Each  puny  wave  in  diamonds  rolled 
O'er  the  calm  deep  where  hues  of  gold 

With  azure  strove  and  green. 
The  hill,  the  vale,  the  tree,  the  tower, 
Glowed  with  the  tints  of  evening's  hour, 

The  beech  was  silver  sheen, 
The  wind  breathed  soft  as  lover's  sigh, 
And  oft  renewed  seemed  oft  to  die, 

With  breathless  pause  between. 
O,  who  with  speech  of  war  and  woes 
Would  wish  to  break  the  soft  repose 

Of  such  enchanting  scene  ? 

XIV. 

Is  it  of  war  Lord  Ronald  speaks  ? 
The  blush  that  dyes  his  manly  cheeks, 
The  timid  look,  and  downcast  eye, 
And  faltering  voice  the  theme  deny. 

And  good  King  Robert's  brow  expressed 
He  pondered  o'er  some  high  request, 

As  doubtful  to  approve  ; 
Yet  in  his  eye  and  lip  the  while, 
Dwelt  the  half-pitying  glance  and  smile 
Which  manhood's  graver  mood  beguile 
When  lovers  talk  of  love. 
Anxious  his  suit  Lord  Ronald  pled ; 
'  And  for  my  bride  betrothed,'  he  said, 


'  My  liege  has  heard  the  rumor  spread 
Of  Edith  from  Artornish  fled. 
Too  hard  her  fate  —  I  claim  no  right 
To  blame  her  for  her  hasty  flight ; 
Be  joy  and  happiness  her  lot !  — 
But  she  hath  fled  the  bridal-knot, 
And  Lorn  recalled  his  promised  plight 
In  the  assembled  chieftains'  sight.  — 
When,  to  fulfil  our  fathers'  band, 
I  proffered  all  I  could  —  my  hand  — 

I  was  repulsed  with  scorn : 
Mine  honor  I  should  ill  assert, 
And  worse  the  feelings  of  my  heart, 
If  I  should  play  a  suitor's  part 
Again  to  pleasure  Lorn.' 

xv. 
1  Young  Lord,'  the  royal  Bruce  replied, 
'  That  question  must  the  Church  decide ; 
Yet  seems  it  hard,  since  rumors'  state 
Edith  takes  Clifford  for  her  mate, 
The  very  tie  which  she  hath  broke 
To  thee  should  still  be  binding  yoke. 
But,  for  my  sister  Isabel  — 
The  mood  of  woman  who  can  tell  ? 
I  guess  the  Champion  of  the  Rock, 
Victorious  in  the  tourney  shock. 
That  knight  unknown  to  whom  the  prize 
She  dealt,  —  had  favor  in  her  eyes  ; 
But  since  our  brother  Nigel's  fate, 
Our  ruined  house  and  hapless  state, 
From  worldly  joy  and  hope  estranged, 
Much  is  the  hapless  mourner  changed. 
Perchance,'  here  smiled  the  noble  King, 
'  This  tale  may  other  musings  bring. 
Soon  shall  we  know  —  yon  mountains  hide 
The  little  convent  of  Saint  Bride  ; 
There,  sent  by  Edward,  she  must  stay 
Till  fate  shall  give  more  prosperous  day ; 
And  thither  will  I  bear  thy  suit, 
Nor  will  thine  advocate  be  mute.' 

XVI. 

As  thus  they  talked  in  earnest  mood, 
That  speechless  boy  beside  them  stood. 
He  stooped  his  head  against  the  mast, 
And  bitter  sobs  came  thick  and  fast, 
A  grief  that  would  not  be  repressed 
But  seemed  to  burst  his  youthful  breast. 
His  hands  against  his  forehead  held 
As  if  by  force  his  tears  repelled, 
But  through  his  fingers  long  and  slight 
Fast  trilled  the  drops  of  crystal  bright. 
Edward,  who  walked  the  deck  apart, 
First  spied  this  conflict  of  the  heart. 
Thoughtless  as  brave,  with  bluntness  kind 
He  sought  to  cheer  the  sorrower's  mind  ; 
By  force  the  slender  hand  he  drew 
From  those  poor  eyes  that  streamed  with 
dew. 


30 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL    WORKS. 


As  in  his  hold  the  stripling  strove  — 

T  was  a   rough   grasp,    though   meant   in 

love  — 
Away  his  tears  the  warrior  swept, 
And  bade  shame  on  him  Jhat  he  wept. 

♦  I  would  to  Heaven  thy  helpless  tongue 
Could    tell    me   who    hath   wrought    thee 

wrong ! 
For,  were  he  of  our  crew  the  best, 
The  insult  went  not  unredressed. 
Come,  cheer  thee ;  thou  art  now  of  age 
To  be  a  warrior's  gallant  page ; 
Thou  shalt  be  mine  !  —  a  palfrey  fair 
O'er  hill  and  holt  my  boy  shall  bear, 
To  hold  my  bow  in  hunting  grove, 
Or  speed  on  errand  to  my  love  ; 
For  well  I  wot  thou  wilt  not  tell 
The  temple  where  my  wishes  dwell.' 

XVII. 

Bruce  interposed,  '  Gay  Edward,  no, 

This  is  no  youth  to  hold  thy  bow, 

To  fill  thy  goblet,  or  to  bear 

Thy  message  light  to  lighter  fair. 

Thou  art  a  patron  all  too  wild 

And  thoughtless  for  this  orphan  child. 

See'st  thou  not  how  apart  he  steals, 

Keeps  lonely  couch,  and  lonely  meals  ? 

Fitter  by  far  in  yon  calm  cell 

To  tend  our  sister  Isabel, 

With  father  Augustine  to  share 

The  peaceful  change  of  convent  prayer, 

Than  wander  wild  adventures  through 

With  such  a  reckless  guide  as  you.'  — 

1  Thanks,  brother  ! '  Edward  answered  gay, 

*  For  the  high  laud  thy  words  convey  ! 
But  we  may  learn  some  future  day, 

If  thou  or  I  can  this  poor  boy 
Protect  the  best  or  best  employ. 
Meanwhile,  our  vessel  nears  the  strand; 
Launch  we  the  boat  and  seek  the  land.' 

XVIII. 

To  land  King  Robert  lightly  sprung, 
And  thrice  aloud  his  bugle  rung 
With  note  prolonged  and  varied  strain 
Till  bold  Ben-Ghoil  replied  again. 

id  Douglas  then  and  De  la  Haye 
Had  in  a  glen  a  hart  at  bay, 
And  Lennox  cheered  the  laggard  hounds, 
When    waked    that   horn  the    greenwood 

bounds. 
4  It  is  the  foe ! '  cried  Boyd,  who  came 
In  breathless  haste  with  eye  of  flame, — 
'  It  is  the  foe  !  — Each  valiant  lord 
Fling  by  his  how  and  grasp  his  sword! ' 
replied  the  good  Lord  James, 
'That  blast  no  English  bugle  claims. 
Oft  have  I  heard  it  fire  the  fight, 


Cheer  the  pursuit,  or  stop  the  flight. 
Dead  were  my  heart  and  deaf  mine  ear, 
If  Bruce  should  call  nor  Douglas  hear ! 
Each  to  Loch  Ranza's  margin  spring ; 
That  blast  was  winded  by  the  king  ! ' 

XIX. 

Fast  to  their  mates  the  tidings  spread, 
And  fast  to  shore  the  warriors  sped. 
Bursting  from  glen  and  greenwood  tree, 
High  waked  their  loyal  jubilee  ! 
Around  the  royal  Bruce  they  crowd, 
And  clasped  his  hands,  and  wept  aloud. 
Veterans  of  early  fields  were  there, 
Whose  helmets  pressed  their  hoary  hair. 
Whose  swords  and  axes  bore  a  stain 
From  life-blood  of  the  red-haired  Dane  ; 
And  boys  whose  hands  scarce  brooked  to 

wield 
The  heavy  sword  or  bossy  shield. 
Men  too  were  there  that  bore  the  scars 
Impressed  in  Albyn's  woful  wars, 
At  Falkirk's  fierce  and  fatal  fight, 
Teyndrum's    dread  rout,   and    Methven's 

flight; 
The  might  of  Douglas  there  was  seen, 
There  Lennox  with  his  graceful  mien  ; 
Kirkpatrick,  Closeburn's  dreaded  Knight : 
The  Lindsay,  fiery,  fierce,  and  light ; 
The  heir  of  murdered  De  la  Haye, 
And  Boyd  the  grave,  and  Seton  gay. 
Around  their  king  regained  they  pressed, 
Wept,  shouted,  clasped  him  to  their  breast. 
And  young  and  old,  and  serf  and  lord, 
And  he  who  ne'er  unsheathed  a  sword, 
And  he  in  many  a  peril  tried, 
Alike  resolved  the  brunt  to  bide, 
And  live  or  die  by  Bruce's  side  ! 

xx. 

O  War !  thou  hast  thy  fierce  delight, 
Thy  gleams  of  joy,  intensely  bright ! 
Such  gleams  as  from  thy  polished  shield 
Fly  dazzling  o'er  the  battle-field  ! 
Such  transports  wake,  severe  and  high, 
Amid  the  pealing  conquest  cry ; 
Scarce  less,  when  after  battle  lost 
Muster  the  remnants  of  a  host, 
And  as  each  conirade's  name  they  tell 
Who  in  the  well-fought  conflict  fell, 
Knitting  stern  brow  o'er  flashing  eye, 
Vow  to  avenge  them  or  to  die  !  — 
Warriors  ! —  and  where  are  warriors  found. 
If  not  on  martial  Britain's  ground  ? 
And  who,  when  waked  with  note  of  fire, 
Love  more  than  they  the  British  lyre  ?  — 
Know  ye  not, — hearts  to  honor  dear  ! 
That  joy,  deep-thrilling,  stern,  severe, 
At  which  the  heartstrings  vibrate  high. 


THE  LORD    OF  THE  ISLES. 


397 


And  wake  the  fountains  of  the  eye  ? 
And  blame  ye  then  the  Bruce  if  trace 
Of  tear  is  on  his  manly  face 
When,  scanty  relics  of  the  train 
That  hailed  at  Scone  his  early  reign, 
This  patriot  band  around  him  hung, 
And  to  his  knees  and  bosom  clung  ?  — 
Blame  ye  the  Bruce  ?  —  His  brother  blamed, 
But  shared  the  weakness,  while  ashamed 
With  haughty  laugh  his  head  he  turned, 
And  dashed  away  the  tear  he  scorned. 

XXI. 

'T  is  morning,  and  the  convent  bell 
Long  time  had  ceased  its  matin  knell 


T're  portress  crossed  herself  and  said, 
1  Not  to  be  Prioress  might  I 
Debate  his  will,  his  suit  deny.'  — 
'  Has  earthly  show  then,  simple  fool, 
Power  o'er  a  sister  of  thy  rule  ? 
And  art  thou,  like  the  worldly  train, 
Subdued  by  splendors  light  and  vain  ? ' 

XXII. 

'  No,  lady  !  in  old  eyes  like  mine, 
Gauds  have  no  glitter,  gems  no  shine  ; 
Nor  grace  his  rank  attendants  vain, 
One  youthful  page  is  all  his  train. 
It  is  the  form,  the  eye,  the  word, 
The  bearing  of  that  stranger  lord ; 


Within  thy  walls,  Saint  Bride  ! 
An  aged  sister  sought  the  cell 
Assigned  to  Lady  Isabel, 

And  hurriedly  she  cried, 
1  Haste,  gentle  Lady,  haste  !  —  there  waits 
A  noble  stranger  at  the  gates ; 
Saint  Bride's  poor  votaress  ne'er  has  seen 
A  knight  of  such  a  princely  mien ; 
His  errand,  as  he  bade  me  tell, 
Is  with  the  Lady  Isabel.' 
The  princess  rose,  —  for  on  her  knee 
Low  bent  she  told  her  rosary,  — 
1  Let  him  by  thee  his  purpose  teach  ; 
I  may  not  give  a  stranger  speech.'  — 
'  Saint  Bride  forefend,  thou  royal  maid ! ' 


His  stature,  manly,  bold,  and  tall, 
Built  like  a  castle's  battled  wall, 
Yet  moulded  in  such  just  degrees, 
His  giant-strength  seems  lightsome  ease. 
Close  as  the  tendrils  of  the  vine 
His  locks  upon  his  forehead  twine, 
Jet-black  save  where  some  touch  of  gray 
Has  ta'en  the  youthful  hue  away. 
Weather  and  war  their  rougher  trace 
Have  left  on  that  majestic  face  ;  — 
But  't  is  his  dignity  of  eye  ! 
There,  if  a  suppliant,  would  I  fly, 
Secure,  mid  danger,  wrongs,  and  grief, 
Of  sympathy,  redress,  relief — - 
That  glance,  if  guilty,  would  I  dread 


59S 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL   WORKS. 


More  than  the  doom  that  spoke  me  dead ! 
1  Enough,  enough,'  the  Princess  cried, 
1  'T  is  Scotland's  hope,  her  joy,  her  pride  ! 
To  meaner  front  was  ne'er  assigned 
Such  mastery  o'er  the  common  mind  — 
Bestowed  thy  high  designs  to  aid, 
How  long,  O  Heaven  !  how  long  delayed  !  — 
Haste,  Mona,  haste,  to  introduce 
My  darling  brother,  royal  Bruce  !  * 

XXIII. 

They  met  like  friends  who  part  in  pain, 
And  meet  in  doubtful  hope  again. 
But  when  subdued  that  fitful  swell, 
The  Bruce  surveyed  the  humble  cell  — 
'And  this  is  thine,  poor  Isabel !  — 
That  pallet-couch  and  naked  wall, 
For  room  of  state  and  bed  of  pall ; 
For  costly  robes  and  jewels  rare, 
A  string  of  beads  and  zone  of  hair ; 
And  for  the  trumpet's  sprightly  call 
To  sport  or  banquet,  grove  or  hall, 
The  bell's  grim  voice  divides  thy  care, 
'Twixt  hours  of  penitence  and  prayer !  — 
O  ill  for  thee,  my  royal  claim 
From  the  First  David's  sainted  name  ! 

0  woe  for  thee,  that  while  he  sought 
His  right,  thy  brother  feebly  fought ! ' 

xxiv. 

1  Now  lay  these  vain  regrets  aside, 

And  be  the  unshaken  Bruce  ! '  she  cried ; 

'  For  more  I  glory  to  have  shared 

The  woes  thy  venturous  spirit  dared, 

When  raising  first  thy  valiant  band 

In  rescue  of  thy  native  land, 

Than  had  fair  Fortune  set  me  down 

The  partner  of  an  empire's  crown. 

And  grieve  not  that  on  pleasure's  stream 

No  more  I  drive  in  giddy  dream, 

For  Heaven  the  erring  pilot  knew, 

And  from  the  gulf  the  vessel  drew, 

Tried  me  with  judgments  stern  and  great, 

My  house's  ruin,  thy  defeat, 

Poor  Nigel's  death,  till  tamed  I  own 

My  hopes  are  fixed  on  Heaven  alone  ; 

Nor  e'er  shall  earthly  prospects  win 

My  heart  to  this  vain  world  of  sin.' 

XXV. 

'Nay,  Isabel,  for  such  stern  choice 
First  wilt  thou  wait  thy  brother's  voice; 
Then  ]><>nder  if  in  convent  scene 

ofter  thoughts  might  intervene  — 
Say  they  were  <>f  that  unknown  knight, 
Vi<  tor  in  Woodstock's  tourney-fight  — 
Nay,  if  his  name  such  blush  you  owe, 
Victorious  o'er  a  fairer  foe  ! ' 
Truly  his  penetrating  eye 


Hath  caught  that  blush's  passing  dye,  — 
Like  the  last  beam  of  evening  thrown 
On  a  white  cloud,  —  just  seen  and  gone. 
Soon  with  calm  cheek  and  steady  eye 
The  princess  made  composed  reply : 
4 1  guess  my  brother's  meaning  well ; 
For  not  so  silent  is  the  cell 
But  we  have  heard  the  islemen  all 
Arm  in  thy  cause  at  Ronald's  call, 
And  mine  eye  proves  that  knight  unknown 
And  the  brave  Island  Lord  are  one. 
Had  then  his  suit  been  earlier  made, 
In  his  own  name  with  thee  to  aid  — 
But  that  his  plighted  faith  forbade  — 
I  know  not  —  But  thy  page  so  near  ?  — 
This  is  no  tale  for  menial's  ear.' 


xxvi. 

Still  stood  that  page,  as  far  apart 

As  the  small  cell  would  space  afford ; 
With  dizzy  eye  and  bursting  heart 

He  leant  his  weight  on  Bruce's  sword. 
The  monarch's  mantle  too  he  bore, 
And  drew  the  fold  his  visage  o'er. 
'  Fear  not  for  him  —  in  murderous  strife,' 
Said  Bruce,  '  his  warning  saved  my  life  ; 
Full  seldom  parts  he  from  my  side,    . 
And  in  his  silence  I  confide, 
Since  he  can  tell  no  tale  again. 
He  is  a  boy  of  gentle  strain, 
And  I  have  purposed  he  shall  dwell 
In  Augustine  the  chaplain's  cell 
And  wait  on  thee,  my  Isabel.  — 
Mind  not  his  tears ;  I  've  seen  them  flow. 
As  in  the  thaw  dissolves  the  snow. 
'T  is  a  kind  youth,  but  fanciful, 
Unfit  against  the  tide  to  pull, 
And  those  that  with  the  Bruce  would  sail 
Must  learn  to  strive  with  stream  and  gale. 
But  forward,  gentle  Isabel  — 
My  answer  for  Lord  Ronald  tell.' 


XXVII. 

'  This  answer  be  to  Ronald  given  — 
The  heart  he  asks  is  fixed  on  heaven. 
My  love  was  like  a  summer  flower 
That  withered  in  the  wintry  hour, 
Born  but  of  vanity  and  pride, 
And  with  these  sunny  visions  died. 
If  further  press  his  suit  —  then  say 
He  should  his  plighted  troth  obey, 
Troth  plighted  both  with  ring  and  word, 
And  sworn  on  crucifix  and  sword.  — 
O,  shame  thee,  Robert !  I  have  seen 
Thou  hast  a  woman's  guardian  been  ! 
Even  in  extremity's  dread  hour, 
When  pressed  on  thee  the  Southern  power, 
And  safety,  to  all  human  sight, 
Was  only  fou/id  in  rapid  flight, 


THE   LORD   OF   THE  ISLES. 


399 


Thou  heard'st  a  wretched  female  plain 
In  agony  of  travail-pain, 
And  thou  didst  bid  thy  little  band 
Upon  the  instant  turn  and  stand, 
And  dare  the  worst  the  foe  might  do 
Rather  than,  like  a  knight  untrue, 
Leave  to^pursuers  merciless 
A  woman  in  her  last  distress. 
And  wilt  thou  now  deny  thine  aid 
To  an  oppressed  and  injured  maid, 
Even  plead  for  Ronald's  perfidy 
And  press  his  fickle  faith  on  me  ?  — 
So  witness  Heaven,  as  true  I  vow, 
Had  I  those  earthly  feelings  now 
Which  could  my  former  bosom  move 
Ere  taught  to  set  its  hopes  above, 
I  'd  spurn  each  proffer  he  could  bring 
Till  at  my  feet  he  laid  the  ring, 
The  ring  and  spousal  contract  both, 
And  fair  acquittal  of  his  oath, 
By  her  who  brooks  his  perjured  scorn, 
The  ill-requited  Maid  of  Lorn  ! ' 

XXVIII. 

With  sudden  impulse  forward  sprung 
The  page  and  on  her  neck  he  hung; 
Then,  recollected  instantly, 
His  head  he  stooped  and  bent  his  knee, 
Kissed  twice  the  hand  of  Isabel, 
Arose,  and  sudden  left  the  cell.  — 
The  princess,  loosened  from  his  hold, 
Blushed  angry  at  his  bearing  bold  ; 

But  good  King  Robert  cried, 
'  Chafe  not  —  by  signs  he  speaks  his  mind, 
He  heard  the  plan  my  care  designed, 

Nor  could  his  transports  hide.  — 
But,  sister,  now  bethink  thee  well ; 
No  easy  choice  the  convent  cell ; 
Trust,  I  shall  play  no  tyrant  part, 
Either  to  force  thy  hand  or  heart, 
Or  suffer  that  Lord  Ronald  scorn 
Or  wrong  for  thee  the  Maid  of  Lorn. 
But  think,  —  not  long  the  time  has  been, 
That  thou  wert  wont  to  sigh  unseen, 
And  wouldst  the  ditties  best  approve 
That  told  some  lay  of  hapless  love. 
Now  are  thy  wishes  in  thy  power, 
And  thou  art  bent  on  cloister  bower ! 
O,  if  our  Edward  knew  the  change, 
How  would  his  busy  satire  range, 
With  many  a  sarcasm  varied  still 
On  woman's  wish  and  woman's  will ! '  — 


XXIX. 

'Brother,  I  well  believe,'  she  said, 

'  Even  so  would  Edward's  part  be  played. 

Kindly  in  heart,  in  word  severe, 

A  foe  to  thought  and  grief  and  fear, 

He  holds  his  humor  uncontrolled  ; 

But  thou  art  of  another  mould. 

Say  then  to  Ronald,  as  I  say, 

Unless  before  my  feet  he  lay 

The  ring  which  bound  the  faith  he  swore, 

By  Edith  freely  yielded  o'er, 

He  moves  his  suit  to  me  no  more. 

Nor  do  I  promise,  even  if  now 

He  stood  absolved  of  spousal  vow, 

That  I  would  change  my  purpose  made 

To  shelter  me  in  holy  shade.  — 

Brother,  for  little  space,  farewell ! 

To  other  duties  warns  the  bell.' 


XXX. 

1  Lost  to  the  world,'  King  Robert  said, 

When  he  had  left  the  royal  maid, 

'  Lost  to  the  world  by  lot  severe, 

O,  what  a  gem  lies  buried  here, 

Nipped  by  misfortune's  cruel  frost, 

The  buds  of  fair  affection  lost !  — 

But  what  have  I  with  love  to  do  ? 

Far  sterner  cares  my  lot  pursue. 

Pent  in  this  isle  we  may  not  lie, 

Nor  would  it  long  our  wants  supply. 

Right  opposite,  the  mainland  towers 

Of  my  own  Turnberry  court  our  powers  — 

Might  not  my  father's  beadsman  hoar, 

Cuthbert,  who  dwells  upon  the  shore, 

Kindle  a  signal-flame  to  show 

The  time  propitious  for  the  blow? 

It  shall  be  so  —  some  friend  shall  bear 

Our  mandate  with  despatch  and  care ; 

Edward  shall  find  the  messenger. 

That  fortress  ours,  the  island  fleet 

May  on  the  coast  of  Carrick  meet.  — 

O  Scotland  !  shall  it  e'er  be  mine 

To  wreak  thy  wrongs  in  battle-line, 

To  raise  my  victor-head,  and  see 

Thy  hills,  thy  dales,  thy  people  free,  — 

That  glance  of  bliss  is  all  I  crave 

Betwixt  my  labors  and  my  grave  ! ' 

Then  down  the  hill  he  slowly  went, 

Oft  pausing  on  the  steep  descent, 

And  reached  the  spot  where  his  bold  train 

Held  rustic  camp  upon  the  plain. 


400 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Cfje  Horn  of  tfje  Isles. 

CANTO   FIFTH. 


On  fair  Loch-Ranza  streamed  the  early  day, 
Thin  wreaths  of  cottage-smoke  are  upward  curled 
From  the  lone  hamlet  which  her  inland  bay 
And  circling  mountains  sever  from  the  world. 
And  there  the  fisherman  his  sail  unfurled, 
The  goat-herd  drove  his  kids  to  steep  Ben-Ghoil, 
Before  the  hut  the  dame  her  spindle  twirled, 
Courting  the  sunbeam  as  she  plied  her  toil,  — 
For,  wake  where'er  he  may,  man  wakes  to  care  and  coil. 

But  other  duties  called  each  convent  maid, 
Roused  by  the  summons  of  the  moss-grown  bell ; 
Sung  were  the  matins  and  the  mass  was  said, 
And  every  sister  sought  her  separate  cell, 
Such  was  the  rule,  her  rosary  to  tell. 
And  Isabel  has  knelt  in  lonely  prayer; 
The  sunbeam  through  the  narrow  lattice  fell 
Upon  the  snowy  neck  and  long  dark  hair, 
As  stooped  her  gentle  head  in  meek  devotion  there. 


She  raised  her  eyes,  that  duty  done, 
When  glanced  upon  the  pavement-stone, 
Gemmed  and  enchased,  a  golden  ring, 
Bound  to  a  scroll  with  silken  string, 
With  few  brief  words  inscribed  to  tell, 
4  This  for  the  Lady  Isabel.' 
Within  the  writing  farther  bore, 
'  'T  was  with  this  ring  his  plight  he  swore, 
With  this  his  promise  I  restore ; 
To  her  who  can  the  heart  command 
Well  may  I  yield  the  plighted  hand. 
And  O,  for  better  fortune  born, 
Grudge  not  a  passing  sigh  to  mourn 
Her  who  was  Edith  once  of  Lorn ! ' 
One  single  flash  of  glad  surprise 
Just  glanced  from  Isabel's  dark  eyes, 
But  vanished  in  the  blush  of  shame 
That  as  its  penance  instant  came. 
•  O  thought  unworthy  of  my  race  ! 
Selfish,  ungenerous,  mean,  and  base, 
A  momenrs  throb  of  joy  to  own 
That  rose  upon  her  hopes  o'erthrown  !  — 
Thou  pledge  of  vows  too  well  believed. 
Of  man  ingrate  and  maid  deceived, 
Think  not  thy  lustre  here  shall  gain 
Another  heart  to  hope  in  vain  ! 
For  thou  shalt  rest,  thou  tempting  gaud, 
Where  worldly  thoughts  are  overawed, 
And  worldly  splendors  sink  debased.' 
Then  by  the  cross  the  ring  she  placed. 


Next  rose  the  thought,  —  its  owner  far, 
How  came  it  here  through  bolt  and  bar?  — 
But  the  dim  lattice  is  ajar. 
She  looks  abroad,  —  the  morning  dew 
A  light  short  step  had  brushed  anew, 

And  there  were  footprints  seen 
On  the  carved  buttress  rising  still, 
Till  on  the  mossy  window-sill 

Their  track  effaced  the  green. 
The  ivy  twigs  were  torn  and  frayed, 
As  if  some  climber's  steps  to  aid.  — 
But  who  the  hardy  messenger 
Whose  venturous  path  these  signs  infer?  — 
'  Strange  doubts  are  mine  !  —  Mona,  draw 

nigh ;  — 
Naught  'scapes  old  Mona's  curious  eye  — 
What  strangers,  gentle  mother,  say, 
Have  sought  these  holy  walls  to-day  ?  ' 
'  None,  lady,  none  of  note  or  name ; 
Only  your  brother's  foot-page  came 
At  peep  of  dawn  —  I  prayed  him  pass 
To  chapel  where  they  said  the  mass  ; 
But  like  an  arrow  he  shot  by, 
And  tears  seemed  bursting  from  his  eye.' 


The  truth  at  once  on  Isabel 

As  darted  by  a  sunbeam  fell : 

1  'T  is  Edith's  self  !  —  her  speechless  woe, 


THE  LORD   OF  THE  ISLES. 


401 


Her  form,  her  looks,  the  secret  show  !  — 

Instant,  good  Mona,  to  the  bay, 

And  to  my  royal  brother  say, 

I  do  conjure  him  seek  my  cell 

With  that  mute  page  he  loves  so  well.' 

'  What !  know'st  thou  not  his  warlike  host 

At  break  of  day  has  left  our  coast? 

My  old  eyes  saw  them  from  the  tower. 

At  eve  they  couched  in  greenwood  bower, 

At  dawn  a  bugle  signal  made 

By  their  bold  lord  their  ranks  arrayed  ; 

Up  sprung  the  spears  through  bush  and 

tree, 
No  time  for  benedicite  ! 
Like  deer  that,  rousing  from  their  lair, 
Just  shake  the  dewdrops  from  their  hair 
And  toss  their  armed  crest  aloft, 
Such    matins    theirs  ! '  —  '  Good    mother, 

soft  — 
Where  does  my  brother  bend  his  way  ?  ■  — 
;  As  I  have  heard,  for  Brodick-Bay, 
Across  the  isle  —  of  barks  a  score 
Lie  there,  't  is  said,  to  waft  them  o'er, 
On  sudden  news,  to  Carrick-shore.'  — 
'  If  such  their  purpose,  deep  the  need,' 
Said  anxious  Isabel,  '  of  speed  ! 
Call  Father  Augustine,  good  dame.'  — 
The  nun  obeyed,  the  father  came. 

'  Kind  father,  hie  without  delay 
Across  the  hills  to  Brodick-Bay. 


26 


This  message  to  the  Bruce  be  given  ; 

I  pray  him,  by  his  hopes  of  Heaven, 

That  till  he  speak  with  me  he  stay  ! 

Or,  if  his  haste  brook  no  delay, 

That  he  deliver  on  my  suit 

Into  thy  charge  that  stripling  mute. 

Thus  prays  his  sister  Isabel 

For  causes  more  than  she  may  tell  — 

Away,  good  father  !  and  take  heed 

That  life  and  death  are  on  thy  speed.' 

His  cowl  the  good  old  priest  did  on, 

Took  his  piked  staff  and  sandalled  shoon, 

And,  like  a  palmer  bent  by  eld, 

O'er  moss  and  moor  his  journey  held. 

VI. 

Heavy  and  dull  the  foot  of  age, 

And  rugged  was  the  pilgrimage  ; 

But  none  were  there  beside  whose  care 

Might  such  important  message  bear. 

Through  birchen  copse  he  wandered  slow, 

Stunted  and  sapless,  thin  and  low  ; 

By  many  a  mountain  stream  he  passed, 

From  the  tall  cliffs  in  tumult  cast, 

Dashing  to  foam  their  waters  dun 

And  sparkling  in  the  summer  sun. 

Round  his  gray  head  the  wild  curlew 

In  many  a  fearless  circle  flew. 

O'er   chasms   he   passed   where   fractures 

wide 
Craved  wary  eye  and  ample  stride  ; 


402 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL    WORKS. 


He  crossed  his  brow  beside  the  stone 
Where  Druids  erst  heard  victims  groan, 
And  at  the  cairns  upon  the  wild 
O'er  many  a  heathen  hero  piled, 
He  breathed  a  timid  prayer  for  those 
Who  died  ere  Shiloh's  sun  arose. 
Beside  Macfarlane's  Cross  he  staid, 
There  told  his  hours  within  the  shade 
And  at  the  stream  his  thirst  allayed. 
Thence  onward  journeying  slowly  still, 
As  evening  closed  he  reached  the  hill 
Where,  rising  through  the  woodland  green, 
Old  Brodick's  Gothic  towers  were  seen. 
From  Hastings  late,  their  English  lord, 
Douglas  had  won  them  by  the  sword. 
The  sun  that  sunk  behind  the  isle 
Now  tinged  them  with  a  parting  smile. 

VII. 

But  though  the  beams  of  light  decay 
'T  was  bustle  all  in  Brodick  Bay. 
The  Bruce's  followers  crowd  the  shore, 
And  boats  and  barges  some  unmoor, 
Some  raise  the  sail,  some  seize  the  oar ; 
Their  eyes  oft  turned  where  glimmered  far 
What  might  have  seemed  an  early  star 
On  heaven's  blue  arch  save  that  its  light 
Was  all  too  flickering,  fierce,  and  bright. 
Far  distant  in  the  south  the  ray 
Shone  pale  amid  retiring  day, 

But  as,  on  Carrick  shore, 
Dim  seen  in  outline  faintly  blue, 
The  shades  of  evening  closer  drew, 
It  kindled  more  and  more. 
The  monk's  slow  steps  now  press  the  sands, 
And  now  amid  a  scene  he  stands 

Full  strange  to  churchman's  eye  ; 
Warriors,  who,  arming  for  the  fight, 
Rivet  and  clasp  their  harness  light, 
And  twinkling  spears,  and  axes  bright, 
And  helmets  flashing  high. 
Oft  too  with  unaccustomed  ears 
A  language  much  unmeet  he  hears, 

While,  hastening  all  on  board, 
As  stormy  as  the  swelling  surge 
That  mixed  its  roar,  the  leaders  urge 
Their  followers  to  the  ocean  verge 
With  many  a  haughty  word. 

XIII. 

Through  that  wild  throng  the  father  passed, 
And  readied  the  royal  Bruce  at  last. 
He  leant  stranded  boat 

That  the  approaching  tide  must  float, 
And  counted  every  rippling  wave 
As  higher  yet  her  sides  they  lave, 
tad  <>it  the  distant  fire  he  eyed, 
And  closer  yet  his  hauberk  tied, 
And  loosened  in  its  sheath  his  brand. 


Edward  and  Lennox  were  at  hand, 

Douglas  and  Ronald  had  the  care 

The  soldiers  to  the  barks  to  share.  — 

The  monk  approached  and  homage  paid  ; 

'  And  art  thou  come,'  King  Robert  said, 

1  So  far  to  bless  us  ere  we  part  ? '  — 

'  My  liege,  and  with  a  loyal  heart !  — 

But  other  charge  I  have  to  tell,'  — 

And  spoke  the  hest  of  Isabel. 

'  Now  by  Saint  Giles,'  the  monarch  cried, 

'  This   moves   me  much  !  —  this   morning 

tide 
I  sent  the  stripling  to  Saint  Bride 
With  my  commandment  there  to  bide.' 
'  Thither  he  came  the  portress  showed, 
But  there,  my  liege,  mad  e  brief  abode.'  — 

IX. 

1  'T  was  I,'  said  Edward,  'found  employ 
Of  nobler  import  for  the  boy. 
Deep  pondering  in  my  anxious  mind 
A  fitting  messenger  to  find 
To  bear  thy  written  mandate  o'er 
To  Cuthbert  on  the  Carrick  shore, 
I  chanced  at  early  dawn  to  pass 
The  chapel  gate  to  snatch  a  mass. 
I  found  the  stripling  on  a  tomb 
Low-seated,  weeping  for  the  doom 
That  gave  his  youth  to  convent  gloom. 
I  told  my  purpose  and  his  eyes 
Flashed  joyful  at  the  glad  surprise. 
He  bounded  to  the  skiff,  the  sail 
Was  .spread  before  a  prosperous  gale, 
And  well  my  charge  he  hath  obeyed  ; 
For  see  !  the  ruddy  signal  made 
That  Clifford  with  his  merry-men  all 
Guards  carelessly  our  father's  hall.' 


x. 

1 0  wild  of  thought  and  hard  of  heart ! ' 
Answered  the  monarch,  'on  a  part 
Of  such  deep  danger  to  employ 
A  mute,  an  orphan,  and  a  boy ! 
Unfit  for  flight,  unfit  for  strife, 
Without  a  tongue  to  plead  for  life  ! 
Now,  were  my  right  restored  by  Heaven, 
Edward,  my  crown  I  would  have  given 
Ere,  thrust  on  such  adventure  wild, 
I  perilled  thus  the  helpless  child.' 
Offended  half  and  half  submiss,— 
4  Brother  and  liege,  of  blame  like  this,' 
Edward  replied,  '  I  little  dreamed. 
A  stranger  messenger,  I  deemed, 
Might  safest  seek  the  beadsman's  cell 
Where  all  thy  squires  are  known  so  well. 
Noteless  his  presence,  sharp  his  sense, 
His  imperfection  his  defence. 
If  seen,  none  can  his  errand  guess  ; 
If  ta'en,  his  words  no  tale  express  — 


THE  LORD   OF  THE  ISLES. 


403 


Methinks,  too,  yonder  beacon's  shine 

Might  expiate  greater  fault  than  mine.' 

'  Rash,'  said  King  Robert,  'was  the  deed  — 

But  it  is  done.     Embark  with  speed  !  — 

Good  father,  say  to  Isabel 

How  this  unhappy  chance  befell ; 

If  well  we  thrive  on  yonder  shore. 

Soon  shall  my  care  her  page  restore. 

Our  greeting  to, our  sister  bear, 

And  think  of  us  in  mass  and  prayer/ 


Their  number  was  a  score  and  ten, 
They  bore  thrice  threescore  chosen  men. 
With  such  small  force  did  Bruce  at  last 
The  die  for  death  or  empire  cast ! 


XII. 


Now  on  the  darkening  main  afloat, 
Ready  and  manned  rocks  every  boat ; 
Beneath  their  oars  the  ocean's  might 
Was  dashed  to  sparks  of  glimmering  light. 


XI. 

'  Ay  !  '  said  the   priest,  '  while    this   poor 

hand 
Can  chalice  raise  or  cross  command, 
While  my  old  voice  has  accents'  use, 
Can  Augustine  forget  the  Bruce  ! ' 
Then  to  his  side  Lord  Ronald  pressed, 
And  whispered,  *  Bear  thou  this  request, 
That  when  by  Bruce's  side  I  fight 
For  Scotland's  crown  and  freedom's  right, 
The  princess  grace  her  knight  to  bear 
Some  token  of  her  favoring  care ; 
It  shall  be  shown  where  England's  best 
May  shrink  to  see  it  on  my  crest. 
And  for  the  boy  —  since  weightier  care 
For  royal  Bruce  the  times  prepare, 
The  helpless  youth  is  Ronald's  charge, 
His  couch  my  plaid,  his  fence  my  targe.' 
He  ceased ;  for  many  an  eager  hand 
Had  urged  the  barges  from  the  strand. 


Faint  and  more  faint,  as  off  they  bore, 
Their  armor  glanced  against  the  shore, 
And,  mingled  with  the  dashing  tide, 
Their  murmuring  voices  distant  died.  — 
'  God    speed    them ! '   said   the   priest,   as 

dark 
On  distant  billows  glides  each  bark  ; 
1  O    Heaven !    when   swords    for   freedom 

shine 
And  monarch's  right,  the  cause  is  thine  ! 
Edge  doubly  every  patriot  blow  ! 
Beat  down  the  banners  of  the  foe  ] 
And  be  it  to  the  nations  known, 
That  victory  is  from  God  alone  ! ' 
As  up  the  hill  his  path  he  drew, 
He  turned  his  blessings  to  renew, 
Oft  turned  till  on  the  darkened  coast 
All  traces  of  their  course  were  lost : 
Then  slowly  bent  to  Brodick  tower 
To  shelter  for  the  evening  hour. 


404 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL    WORKS. 


XIII. 

In  night  the  fairy  prospects  sink 
Where  Cumray's  isles  with  verdant  link 
Close  the  fair  entrance  of  the  Clyde ; 
The  woods  of  Bute,  no  more  descried, 
Are  gone  — and  on  the  placid  sea 
The  rowers  ply  their  task  with  glee, 
While  hands  that  knightly  lances  bore 
Impatient  aid  the  laboring  oar. 
The  half-faced  moon  shone  dim  and  pale, 
And  glanced  against  the  whitened  sail ; 
But  on  that  ruddy  beacon-light 
Each  steersman  kept  the  heim  aright, 
And  oft,  for  such  the  king's  command, 
That  all  at  once  might  reach  the  strand, 
From  boat  to  boat  loud  shout  and  hail 
Warned  them  to  crowd  or  slacken  sail. 
South  and  by  west  the  armada  bore. 
And  near  at  length  the  Carrick  shore. 
As  less  and  less  the  distance  grows, 
High  and  more  high  the  beacon  rose ; 
The  light  that  seemed  a  twinkling  star 
Now  blazed  portentous,  fierce,  and  far. 
Dark-red  the  heaven  above  it  glowed, 
Dark-red  the  sea  beneath  it  flowed. 
Red  rose  the  rocks  on  ocean's  brim, 
In  blood-red  light  her  islets  swim; 
Wild  scream  the  dazzled  sea-fowl  gave, 
Dropped  from  their  crags  on  plashing  wave. 
The  deer  to  distant  covert  drew, 
The  black-cock  deemed  it  day  and  crew. 
Like  some  tall  castle  given  to  flame, 
O'er  half  the  land  the  lustre  came. 
1  Now,  good  my  liege  and  brother  sage, 
What  think  ye  of  mine  elfin  page  ? '  — 
1  Row  on  ! '  the  noble  king  replied, 
*  We  '11  learn  the  truth  whate'er  betide  ; 
Yet  sure  the  beadsman  and  the  child 
Could  ne'er  have  waked  that  beacon  wild.' 


xiv. 

With  that  the  boats  approached  the  land, 
But  Edward's  grounded  on  the  sand ; 
The  eager  knight  leaped  in  the  sea 
Waste-deep  and  first  on  shore  was  he, 
Though  every  barge's  hardy  band 
Contended  which  should  gain  the  land, 
When  that  strange  light,  which  seen  afar 
Seemed  steady  as  the  polar  star, 
Now,  like  a  prophet's  fiery  chair, 
Seemed  travelling  the  realms  of  air. 
Wide  o'er  the  sky  the  splendor  glows 
As  (hat  portentous  meteor  rose ; 
lit  lm,  axe,  and  falchion  glittered  bright, 
And  in  the  red  and  dusky  light 
His  comrade's  face  each  warrior  saw, 
Nor  marvelled  it  was  pale  with  awe. 
Then  high  in  air  the  beams  were  lost, 
And  darkness  sunk  upon  the  coast. — 


Ronald  to  Heaven  a  prayer  addressed, 

And  Douglas  crossed  his  dauntless  breast : 

•  Saint  James  protect  us  ! '  Lennox  cried, 

But  reckless  Edward  spoke  aside, 

'  Deem'st  thou,  Kirkpatrick,  in  that  flame 

Red  Comyn's  angry  spirit  came, 

Or  would  thy  dauntless  heart  endure 

Once  more  to  make  assurance  sure  ? ' 

'  Hush  ! '  said  the  Bruce ;    '  we  soon  shall 

know 
If  this  be  sorcerer's  empty  show 
Or  stratagem  of  southern  foe. 
The  moon  shines  out  —  upon  the  sand 
Let  every  leader  rank  his  band.' 


Faintly  the  moon's  pale  beams  supply 
That  ruddy  light's  unnatural  dye ; 
The  dubious  cold  reflection  lay 
On  the  wet  sands  and  quiet  bay. 
Beneath  the  rocks  King  Robert  drew 
His  scattered  files  to  order  due, 
Till  shield  compact  and  serried  spear 
In  the  cool  light  shone  blue  and  clear. 
Then  down  a  path  that  sought  the  tide 
That  speechless  page  was  seen  to  glide ; 
He  knelt  him  lowly  on  the  sand, 
And  gave  a  scroll  to  Robert's  hand. 
1 A  torch,'  the  monarch  cried,  '  What,  ho  ! 
Now  shall  we  Cuthbert's  tidings  know.' 
But  evil  news  the  letters  bear, 
The  Clifford's  force  was  strong  and  ware, 
Augmented  too,  that  very  morn, 
By  mountaineers  who  came  with  Lorn. 
Long  harrowed  by  oppressor's  hand, 
Courage  and  faith  had  fled  the  land. 
And  over  Carrick,  dark  and  deep, 
Had  sunk  dejection's  iron  sleep.  — 
Cuthbert  had  seen  that  beacon  flame, 
Unwitting  from  what  source  it  came. 
Doubtful  of  perilous  event, 
Edward's  mute  messenger  he  sent, 
If  Bruce  deceived  should  venture  o'er, 
To  warn  him  from  the  fatal  shore. 

XVI. 

As  round  the  torch  the  leaders  crowd, 
Bruce  read  these  chilling  news  aloud. 
'  What  council,  nobles,  have  we  now  ?  — 
To  ambush  us  in  greenwood  bough, 
And  take  the  chance  which  fate  may  send 
To  bring  our  enterprise  to  end  ? 
Or  shall  we  turn  us  to  the  main 
As  exiles,  and  embark  again  ? ' 
Answered  fierce  Edward,  <  Hap  what  may 
In  Carrick  Carrick's  lord  must  stay. 
I  would  not  minstrels  told  the  tale 
Wildfire  or  meteor  made  us  quail.' 
Answered  the  Douglas,  '  If  my  liege 
May  win  yon  walls  by  storm  or  siege, 


THE  LORD   OF   THE   ISLES. 


405 


Then  were  each  brave  and  patriot  heart 
Kindled  of  new  for  loyal  part.' 
Answered  Lord  Ronald,  '  Not  for  shame 
Would  I  that  aged  Torquil  came 
And  found,  for  all  our  empty  boact, 
Without  a  blow  we  fled  the  coast. 
I  will  not  credit  that  this  land, 
So  famed  for  warlike  heart  and  hand, 
The  nurse  of  Wallace  and  of  Bruce, 
Will  long  with  tyrants  hold  a  truce.' 
1  Prove  we  our  fate  —  the  brunt  we  '11  bide  ! ' 
So  Boyd  and  Haye  and  Lennox  cried ; 
So  said,  so  vowed  the  leaders  all ; 
So  Bruce  resolved  :  '  And  in  my  hall 
Since  the  bold  Southern  make  their  home, 
The  hour  of  payment  soon  shall  come, 
When  with  a  rough  and  rugged  host 
Clifford  may  reckon  to  his  cost. 
Meantime,  through  well-known  bosk     and 

dell 
I  '11  lead  where  we  may  shelter  well.' 

XVII. 

Now  ask  you  whence  that  wondrous  light, 
Whose  fairy  glow  beguiled  their  sight?  — 
It  ne'er  was  known  —  yet  gray-haired  eld 
A  superstitious  credence  held 
That  never  did  a  mortal  hand 
Wake  its  broad  glare  on  Carrick  strand  ; 
Nay,  and  that  on  the  selfsame  night 
When  Bruce  crossed  o'er  still  gleams  the 

light. 
Yearly  it  gleams  o'er  mount  and  moor 
And  glittering  wave  and  crimsoned  shore  — 
But  whether  beam  celestial,  lent 
By  Heaven  to  aid  the  king's  descent, 
Or  fire  hell-kindled  from  beneath 
To  lure  him  to  defeat  and  death, 
Or  were  it  but  some  meteor  strange 
Of  such  as  oft  through  midnight  range, 
Startling  the  traveller  late  and  lone, 
I  know  not  —  and  it  ne'er  was  known. 

XVIII. 

Now  up  the  rocky  pass  they  drew, 
And  Ronald,  to  his  promise  true, 
Still  made  his  arm  the  stripling's  stay, 
To  aid  him  on  the  rugged  way. 
•  Now  cheer  thee,  simple  Amadine  ! 
Why  throbs  that  silly  heart  of  thine  ?  '  — 
That  name  the  pirates  to  their  slave  — 
In  Gaelic  't  is  the  Changeling  —  gave  — 
'  Dost  thou  not  rest  thee  on  my  arm  ? 
Do  not  my  plaid-folds  hold  thee  warm  ? 
Hath  not  the  wild  bull's  treble  hide 
This  targe  for  thee  and  me  supplied  ? 
Is  not  Clan-Colla's  sword  of  steel? 
And,  trembler,  canst  thou  terror  feel  ? 
Cheer  thee,  and  still  that  throbbing  heart ; 
From  Ronald's  guard  thou  shalt  not  part.'  — 


0  !  many  a  shaft  at  random  sent 
Finds  mark  the  archer  little  meant ! 
And  many  a  word  at  random  spoken 

May  soothe  or  wound  a  heart  that 's  broken  ! 

Half  soothed,  half  grieved,  half  terrified, 

Close  drew  the  page  to  Ronald's  side  ; 

A  wild  delirious  thrill  of  joy 

Was  in  that  hour  of  agony, 

As  up  the  steepy  pass  he  strove, 

Fear,  toil,  and  sorrow,  lost  in  love ! 

XIX. 

The  barrier  of  that  iron  shore, 
The  rock's  steep  ledge,  is  now  climbed  o'er; 
And  from  the  castle's  distant  wall, 
From  tower  to  tower  the  warders  call : 
The  sound  swings  over  land  and  sea, 
And  marks  a  watchful  enemy.  — 
They  gained  the  Chase,  a  wide  domain 
Left  for  the  castle's  sylvan  reign  — 
Seek  not  the  scene ;  the  axe,  the  plough, 
The  boor's  dull  fence,  have  marred  it  now, 
But  then  soft  swept  in  velvet  green 
The  plain  with  many  a  glade  between, 
Whose  tangled  alleys  far  invade 
The  depth  of  the  brown  forest  shade. 
Here  the  tall  fern  obscured  the  lawn, 
Fair  shelter  for  the  sportive  fawn  ; 
There,  tufted  close  with  copsewood  green, 
Was  many  a  swelling  hillock  seen ; 
And  all  around  was  verdure  meet 
For  pressure  of  the  fairies'  feet. 
The  glossy  holly  loved  the  park, 
The  yew-tree  lent  its  shadow  dark, 
And  many  an  old  oak,  worn  and  bare, 
With  all  its  shivered  boughs  was  there. 
Lovely  between,  the  moonbeams  fell 
On  lawn  and  hillock,  glade  and  dell. 
The  gallant  monarch  sighed  to  see 
These  glades  so  loved  in  childhood  free, 
Bethinking  that  as  outlaw  now 
He  ranged  beneath  the  forest  bough. 

xx. 

Fast  o'er  the  moonlight  Chase  they  sped. 
Well  knew  the  band  that  measured  tread 
When,  in  retreat  or  in  advance, 
The  serried  warriors  move  at  once  ; 
And  evil  were  the  luck  if  dawn 
Descried  them  on  the  open  lawn. 
Copses  they  traverse,  brooks  they  cross, 
Strain  up  the  bank  and  o'er  the  moss. 
From  the  exhausted  page's  brow 
Cold  drops  of  toil  are  streaming  now ; 
With  effort  faint  and  lengthened  pause, 
His  weary  step  the  stripling  draws. 
'  Nay,  droop  not  yet ! '  the  warrior  said ; 

1  Come,  let  me  give  thee  ease  and  aid ! 
Strong  are  mine  arms,  and  little  care 
A  weight  so  slight  as  thine  to  bear.  — 


406 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL   WORKS. 


What !  wilt  thou  not  ?  —  capricious  boy !  — 
Then  thine  own  limbs  and  strength  employ. 
Pass  but  this  night  and  pass  thy  care, 
I  '11  place  thee  with  a  lady  fair, 
Where  thou  shalt  tune  thy  lute  to  tell 
How  Ronald  loves  fair  Isabel ! ' 
Worn  out,  disheartened,  and  dismayed, 
Here  Amadine  let  go  the  plaid  ; 
His  trembling  limbs  their  aid  refuse, 
He  sunk  among  the  midnight  dews  ! 

XXI. 

What  may  be  done  ?  —  the  night  is  gone  — 
The  Bruce's  band  moves  swiftly  on  — 
Eternal  shame  if  at  the  brunt 
Lord  Ronald  grace  not  battle's  front!  — 
•  See  yonder  oak  within  whose  trunk 
Decay  a  darkened  cell  hath  sunk  ; 
Enter  and  rest  thee  there  a  space, 
Wrap  in  my  plaid  thy  limbs,  thy  face. 
I  will  not  be,  believe  me,  far, 
But  must  not  quit  the  ranks  of  war. 
Well  will  I  mark  the  bosky  bourne, 
And  soon,  to  guard  thee  hence,  return.  — 
Nay,  weep  not  so,  thou  simple  boy ! 
But  sleep  in  peace  and  wake  in  joy.' 
In  sylvan  lodging  close  bestowed, 
He  placed  the  page  and  onward  strode 
With  strength  put  forth  o'er  moss  and  brook, 
And  soon  the  marching  band  o'ertook. 

XXII. 

Thus  strangely  left,  long  sobbed  and  wept 

The  page  till  wearied  out  he  slept  — 

A  rough  voice  waked  his  dream  —  'Nay, 

here, 
Here  by  this  thicket  passed  the  deer  — 
Beneath  that  oak  old  Ryno  staid  — 
\YThat  have  we  here  ?  —  A  Scottish  plaid 
And  in  its  folds  a  stripling  laid  ?  — 
Come  forth  !  thy  name  and  business  tell ! 
What,  silent  ?  —  then  I  guess  thee  well, 
The  spy  that  sought  old  Cuthbert's  cell, 
Wafted  from  Arran  yester  morn  — 
Come,  comrades,  we  will  straight  return. 
Our  lord  may  choose  the  rack  should  teach 
To  this  young  lurcher  use  of  speech. 
Thy  bow-string,  till  I  bind  him  fast.' — 
'  Nay,  but  he  weeps  and  stands  aghast; 
Unbound  we  Ml  lead  him,  fear  it  not ; 
T  is  a  fair  stripling,  though  a  Scot.' 
The  hunters  to  the  castle  sped, 
And  there  the  hapless  captive  led. 

XXIII. 

Stout  Clifford  in  the  castle-court 
Prepared  him  for  the  morning  sport; 
And  now  with  Lorn  held  deep  discourse, 
Now  gave  command  for  hound  and  horse. 


War-steeds  and  palfreys  pawed  the  ground. 

And  many  a  deer-dog  howled  around. 

To  Amadine  Lorn's  well-known  word 

Replying  to  that  Southern  lord, 

Mixed  with  this  clanging  din,  might  seem 

The  phantasm  of  a  fevered  dream. 

The  tone  upon  his  ringing  ears 

Came  like  the  sounds  which  fancy  hears 

When  in  rude  waves  or  roaring  winds 

Some  words  of  woe  the  muser  finds, 

Until  more  loudly  and  more  near 

Their  speech  arrests  the  page's  ear. 

XXIV. 

*  And  was  she  thus,'  said  Clifford,  '  lost  ? 
The  priest  should  rue  it  to  his  cost ! 
What  says  the  monk  ?  '  —  '  The  holy  sire 
Owns  that  in  masquer's  quaint  attire 
She  sought  his  skiff  disguised,  unknown 
To  all  except  to  him  alone. 
But,  says  the  priest,  a  bark  from  Lorn 
Laid  them  aboard  that  very  morn, 
And  pirates  seized  her  for  their  prey. 
He  proffered  ransom  gold  to  pay 
And  they  agreed  —  but  ere  told  "o'er, 
The  winds  blow  loud,  the  billows  roar  ; 
They  severed  and  they  met  no  more. 
He    deems  —  such    tempests    vexed    the 

coast  — 
Ship,  crew,  and  fugitive  were  lost. 
So  let  it  be,  with  the  disgrace 
And  scandal  of  her  lofty  race  ! 
Thrice  better  she  had  ne'er  been  born 
Than  brought  her  infamy  on  Lorn  ! ' 

XXV. 

Lord  Clifford  now  the  captive  spied;  — 
1  Whom,   Herbert,   hast  thou  there?'   he 

cried. 
'  A  spy  we  seized  within  the  Chase, 
A  hollow  oak  his  lurking-place.'  — 
1  What  tidings  can  the  youth  afford? '  — 
'  He  plays   the   mute.'  —  '  Then   noose   a 

cord  — 
Unless  brave  Lorn  reverse  the  doom 
For  his  plaid's  sake.'  —  <  Clan-Colla's  loom.' 
Said  Lorn,  whose  careless  glances  trace 
Rather  the  vesture  than  the  face, 
*  Clan-Colla's  dames  such  tartans  twine  ; 
Wearer  nor  plaid  claims  care  of  mine. 
Give  him,  if  my  advice  you  crave, 
His  own  scathed  oak  ;  and  let  him  wave 
In  air  unless,  by  terror  wrung, 
A  frank  confession  find  his  tongue.  — 
Nor  shall  he  die  without  his  rite ; 
Thou,  Angus  Roy,  attend  the  sight, 
And  give  Clan-Colla's  dirge  thy  breath 
As  they  convey  him  to  his  death.'  — 
1  O  brother  !  cruel  to  the  last ! ' 
Through  the  poor  captive's  bosom  passed 


THE  LORD   OF  THE  ISLES. 


407 


The  thought,  but,  to  his  purpose  true, 
He  said  not,  though  he  sighed,  '  Adieu  ! ' 

XXVI. 

And  will  he  keep  his  purpose  still 

In  sight  of  that  last  closing  ill, 

When  one  poor  breath,  one  single  word, 

May  freedom,  safety,  life,  afford  ? 

Can  he  resist  the  instinctive  call 

For  life  that  bids  us  barter  all  ?  — 

Love,  strong  as  death,  his  heart  hath  steeled, 

His  nerves  hath  strung  —  he  will  not  yield  ! 

Since  that  poor  breath,  that  little  word, 

May*yield  Lord  Ronald  to  the  sword.* — 

Clan-Colla's  dirge  is  pealing  wide, 

The  griesly  headsman  's  by  his  side  ; 

Along  the  greenwood  Chase  they  bend, 

And  now  their  march  has  ghastly  end ! 

That  old  and  shattered  oak  beneath, 

They  destine  for  the  place  of  death. 

What  thoughts  are  his,  while  all  in  vain 

His  eye  for  aid  explores  the  plain? 

What  thoughts,  while  with  a  dizzy  ear 

He  hears  the  death-prayer  muttered  near  ? 

And  must  he  die  such  death  accurst, 

Or  will  that  bosom-secret  burst  ? 

Cold  on  his  brow  breaks  terror's  dew, 

His  trembling  lips  are  livid  blue  ; 

The  agony  of  parting  life 

Has  naught  to  match  that  moment's  strife ! 

XXVII. 

But  other  witnesses  are  nigh, 

Who  mock  at  fear,  and  death  defy  ! 

Soon  as  the  dire  lament  was  played 

It  waked  the  lurking  ambuscade. 

The  Island  Lord  looked  forth  and  spied 

The  cause,  and  loud  in  fury  cried, 

1  By  Heaven,  they  lead  the  page  to  die, 

And  mock  me  in  his  agony ! 

They  shall  aby  it ! '  —  On  his  arm 

Bruce  laid  strong  grasp,  'They  shall  not 

harm 
A  ringlet  of  the  stripling's  hair ; 
But.till  I  give  the  word  forbear.  — 
Douglas,  lead  fifty  of  our  force 
Up  yonder  hollow  water-course, 
And  couch  thee  midway  on  the  wold, 
Between  the  flyers  and  their  hold  : 
A  spear  above  the  copse  displayed, 
Be  signal  of  the  ambush  made.  — 
Edward,  with  forty  spearmen  straight 
Through  yonder  copse  approach  the  gate, 
And  when  thou  hear'st  the  battle-din 
Rush  forward  and  the  passage  win, 
Secure  the  drawbridge,  storm  the  port, 
And  man  and  guard  the  castle-court. — 
The  rest  move  slowly  forth  with  me, 
In  shelter  of  the  forest-tree, 
Till  Douglas  at  his  post  I  see.' 


Like  war-horse  eager  to  rush  on, 
Compelled  to  wait  the  signal  blown, 
Hid,  and  scarce  hid,  by  greenwood  bough, 
Trembling  with  rage  stands  Ronald  now. 
And  in  his  grasp  his  sword  gleams  blue. 
Soon  to  be  dyed  with  deadlier  hue.  — 
Meanwhile  the  Bruce  with  steady  eye 
Sees  the  dark  death-train  moving  by, 
And  heedful  measures  oft  the  space 
The  Douglas  and  his  band  must  trace, 
Ere  they  can  reach  their  destined  ground- 
Now  sinks  the  dirge's  wailing  sound. 
Now  cluster  round  the  direful  tree 
That  slow  and  solemn  company, 
While  hymn  mistuned  and  muttered  prayer 
The  victim  for  his  fate  prepare.  — 
What  glances  o'er  the  greenwood  shade  ? 
The  spear  that  marks  the  ambuscade  !  — 
'  Now,  noble  chief !  I  leave  thee  loose  ; 
Upon  them,  Ronald ! '  said  the  Bruce. 

XXIX. 

'  The  Bruce !  the  Bruce ! '  to  well-known  cry 
His  native  rocks  and  woods  reply. 
1  The  Bruce  !  the  Bruce  ! '  in  that  dread  word 
The  knell  of  hundred  deaths  was  heard. 
The  astonished  Southern  gazed  at  first 
Where  the  wild  tempest  was  to  burst 
That  waked  in  that  presaging  name. 
Before,  behind,  around  it  came  ! 
Half-armed,  surprised,  on  every  side 
Hemmed  in,  hewed  down,  they  bled  and 

died. 
Deep  in  the  ring  the  Bruce  engaged, 
And  fierce  Clan-Colla's  broadsword  raged  ! 
Full  soon  the  few  who  fought  were  sped, 
Nor  better  was  their  lot  who  fled 
And  met  mid  terror's  wild  career 
The  Douglas's  redoubted  spear  ! 
Two  hundred  yeomen  on  that  morn 
The  castle  left,  and  none  return. 


Not  on  their  flight  pressed  Ronald's  brand, 
A  gentler  duty  claimed  his  hand. 
He  raised  the  page  where  on  the  plain 
His  fear  had  sunk  him  with  the  slain : 
And  twice  that  morn  surprise  well  near 
Betrayed  the  secret  kept  by  fear ; 
Once  when  with  life  returning  came 
To  the  boy's  lip  Lord  Ronald's  name, 
And  hardly  recollection  drowned 
The  accerits  in  a  murmuring  sound ; 
And  once  when  scarce  he  could  resist 
The  chieftain's  care  to  loose  the  vest 
Drawn  tightly  o'er  his  laboring  breast. 
But  then  the  Bruce 's  bugle  blew, 
For  martial  work  was  yet  to  do. 


408 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL   WORKS. 


A  harder  task  fierce  Edward  waits. 
Ere  signal  given  the  castle  gates 

His  fury  had  assailed ; 
Such  was  his  wonted  reckless  mood, 
Yet  desperate  valor  oft  made  good, 
Even  by  its  daring,  venture  rude 

Where  prudence  might  have  failed. 
Upon  the  bridge  his  strength  he  threw, 
And  struck  the  iron  chain  in  two, 

By  which  its  planks  arose ; 
The  warder  next  his  axe's  edge 
Struck  down  upon  the  threshold  ledge, 
'Twixt  door  and  post  a  ghastly  wedge  ! 

The  gate  they  may  not  close. 
Well  fought  the  Southern  in  the  fray, 
Clifford  and  Lorn  fought  well  that  day, 
But  stubborn  Edward  forced  his  way 

Against  a  hundred  foes. 
Loud  came  the  cry, '  The  Bruce  !  the  Bruce  ! 
No  hope  or  in  defence  or  truce,  — 

Fresh  combatants  pour  in ; 
Mad  with  success  and  drunk  with  gore, 
They  drive  the  struggling  foe  before 

And  ward  on  ward  they  win. 
Unsparing  was  the  vengeful  sword, 
And  limbs  were  lopped  and  life-blood  poured, 
The  cry  of  death  and  conflict  roared, 

And  fearful  was  the  din  ! 
The  startling  horses  plunged  and  flung, 
Clamored  the  dogs  till  turrets  rung, 

Nor  sunk  the  fearful  cry 
Till  not  a  foeman  was  there  found 
Alive  save  those  who  on  the  ground 

Groaned  in  their  agony ! 


XXXII. 

The  valiant  Clifford  is  no  more ; 

On  Ronald's  broadsword  streamed  his  gore. 

But  better  hap  had  he  of  Lorn, 

Who,  by  the  foeman  backward  borne, 

Yet  gained  with  slender  train  the  port 

Where  lay  his  bark  beneath  the  fort, 

And  cut  the  cable  loose. 
Short  were  his  shrift  in  that  debate, 
That  hour  of  fury  and  of  fate, 

If  Lorn  encountered  Bruce  ! 
Tin  n  long  and  loud  the  victor  shout 
From  turret  and  from  tower  rung  out, 

The  rugged  vaults  replied; 
And  from  the  donjon  tower  on  high 


The  men  of  Carrick  may  descry 
Saint  Andrew's  cross  in  blazonry 
Of  silver  waving  wide  ! 

XXXIII. 

The  Bruce  hath  won  his  father's  hall !  — 
1  Welcome,  brave  friends  and  comrades  all, 

Welcome  to  mirth  and  joy  ! 
The  first,  the  last,  is  welcome  here, 
From  lord  and  chieftain,  prince  and  peer. 

To  this  poor  speechless  boy. 
Great  God !  once  more  my  sire's  abode 
Is  mine  —  behold  the  floor  I.  trode 

In  tottering  infancy !  • 

And  there  the  vaulted  arch  whose  sound 
Echoed  my  joyous  shout  and  bound 
In  boyhood,  and  that  rung  around 

To  youth's  unthinking  glee  ! 
O,  first  to  thee,  all-gracious  Heaven, 
Then  to  my  friends,  my  thanks  be  given  ! '  — 
He  paused  a  space,  his  brow  he  crossed  — 
Then  on  the  board  his  sword  he  tossed, 
Yet  steaming  hot;  with  Southern  gore 
From  hilt  to  point  'twas  crimsoned  o'er. 

xxxiv. 

'  Bring  here,'  he  said,  '  the  mazers  four 
My  noble  fathers  loved  of  yore. 
Thrice  let  them  circle  round  the  board, 
The  pledge,  fair  Scotland's  rights  restored  ! 
And  he  whose  lip  shall  touch  the  wine 
Without  a  vow  as  true  as  mine, 
To  hold  both  lands  and  life  at  naught 
Until  her  freedom  shall  be  bought,  — 
Be  brand  of  a  disloyal  Scot 
And  lasting  infamy  his  lot ! 
Sit,  gentle  friends  !  our  hour  of  glee 
Is  brief,  we  '11  spend  it  joyously  ! 
Blithest  of  all  the  sun's  bright  beams, 
When  betwixt  storm  and  storm  he  gleams. 
Well  is  our  country's  work  begun, 
But  more,  far  more,  must  yet  be  done. 
Speed  messengers  the  country  through  ; 
Arouse  old  friends  and  gather  new; 
Warn  Lanark's  knights  to  gird  their  mail, 
Rouse  the  brave  sons  of  Teviotdale, 
Let  Ettrick's  archers  sharp  their  darts, 
The  fairest  forms,  the  truest  hearts  ! 
Call  all,  call  all !  from  Reedswair-Path 
To  the  wild  confines  of  Cape-Wrath ; 
Wide  let  the  news  through  Scotland  ring,  — 
The  Northern  Eagle  claps  his  wing ! ' 


THE   LORD   OF   THE  ISLES. 


409 


n 


E\)t  ILoro  of  tjje  Isles. 


CANTO   SIXTH. 


O  who  that  shared  them  ever  shall  forget 
The  emotions  of  the  spirit-rousing  time, 
When  breathless  in  the  mart  the  couriers  met 
Early  and  late,  at  evening  and  at  prime ; 
When  the  loud  cannon  and  the  merry  chime 
Hailed  news  on  news,  as  field  on  field  was  won, 
When  Hope,  long  doubtful,  soared  at  length  sublime, 
And  our  glad  eyes,  awake  as  day  begun, 
Watched  Joy's  broad  banner  rise  to  meet  the  rising  sun  ! 


O  these  were  hours  when  thrilling  joy  repaid 
A  long,  long  course  of  darkness,  doubts,  and  fears  ! 
The  heart-sick  faintness  of  the  hope  delayed, 
The  waste,  the  woe,  the  bloodshed,  and  the  tears, 
That  tracked  with  terror  twenty  rolling  years, 
All  was  forgot  in  that  blithe  jubilee  ! 
Her  downcast  eye  even  pale  Affliction  rears, 
To  sigh  a  thankful  prayer  amid  the  glee 
That  hailed  the  Despot's  fall,  and  peace  and  liberty  ! 


4io 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL    WORKS. 


Such  news  o'er  Scotland's  hills  triumphant  rode 
When  'gainst  the  invaders  turned  the  battle's  scale, 
When  Bruce's  banner  had  victorious  flowed 
O'er  Loudoun's  mountain  and  in  Ury's  vale ; 
When  English  blood  oft  deluged  Douglas-dale, 
And  fiery  Edward  routed  stout  Saint  John, 
When  Randolph's  war-cry  swelled  the  southern  gale, 
And  many  a  fortress,  town,  and  tower  was  won, 
And  Fame  still  sounded  forth  fresh  deeds  of  glory  done. 


Blithe  tidings  flew  from  baron's  tower 
To  peasant's  cot,  to  forest-bower, 
And  waked  the  solitary  cell 
Where  lone  Saint  Bride's  recluses  dwell. 
Princess  no  t.iore,  fair  Isabel, 

A  votaress  of  the  order  now, 
Say,  did  the  rule  that  bid  thee  wear 
Dim  veil  and  woollen  scapulare, 
And  reft  thy  locks  of  dark-brown  hair, 

That  stern  and  rigid  vow, 
Did  it  condemn  the  transport  high 
Which  glistened  in  thy  watery  eye 
When  minstrel  or  when  palmer  told 
Each  fresh  exploit  of  Bruce  the  bold  ?  — 
And  whose  the  lovely  form  that  shares 
Thy  anxious  hopes,  thy  fears,  thy  prayers  ? 
No  sister  she  of  convent  shade ; 
So  say  these  locks  in  lengthened  braid, 
So  say  the  blushes  and  the  sighs, 
The  tremors  that  unbidden  rise, 
When,  mingled  with  the  Bruce's  fame, 
The  brave  Lord  Ronald's  praises  came. 

in. 

Believe,  his  father's  castle  won 
And  his  bold  enterprise  begun, 
That  Bruce's  earliest  cares  restore 
The  speechless  page  to  Arran's  shore : 
Nor  think  that  long  the  quaint  disguise 
Concealed  her  from  a  sister's  eyes ; 
And  sister-like  in  love  they  dwell 
In  that  lone  convent's  silent  cell. 
There  Bruce's  slow  assent  allows 
Fair  Isabel  the  veil  and  vows ; 
And  there,  her  sex's  dress  regained, 
The  lovely  Maid  of  Lorn  remained, 
Unnamed,  unknown,  while  Scotland  far 
Resounded  with  the  din  of  war ; 
And  many  a  month  and  many  a  day 
In  calm  seclusion  wore  away. 


to  years  had 


IV. 

These  days,  these  months, 

worn 
When  tidings  of  high  weight  were  borne 

To  that  lone  island's  shore  ; 
Of  all  the  Scottish  conquests  made 


By  the  First  Edward's  ruthless  blade 

His  son  retained  no  more, 
Northward  of  Tweed,  but  Stirling's  towers, 
Beleaguered  by  King  Robert's  powers  ; 

And  they  took  term  of  truce, 
If  England's  King  should  not  relieve 
The  siege  ere  John  the  Baptist's  eve, 

To  yield  them  to  the  Bruce. 
England  was  roused  —  on  every  side 
Courier  and  post  and  herald  hied 

To  summon  prince  and  peer, 
At  Berwick-bounds  to  meet  their  liege, 
Prepared  to  raise  fair  Stirling's  siege 

With  buckler,  brand,  and  spear. 
The  term  was  nigh  —  they  mustered  fast. 
By  beacon  and  by  bugle-blast 

Forth  marshalled  for  the  field ; 
There  rode  each  knight  of  noble  name, 
There  England's  hardy  archers  came, 
The  land  they  trode  seemed  all  on  flame 

With  banner,  blade,  and  shield ! 
And  not  famed  England's  powers  alone, 
Renowned  in  arms,  the  summons  own ; 

For  Neustria's  knights  obeyed, 
Gascogne  hath  lent  her  horsemen  good, 
And  Cambria,  but  of  late  subdued, 
Sent  forth  her  mountain-multitude, 
And  Connoght  poured  from  waste  and  wood 
Her  hundred  tribes,  whose  sceptre  rude 

Dark  Eth  O'Connor  swayed. 

v. 
Right  to  devoted  Caledon 
The  storm  of  war  rolls  slowly  on 

With  menace  deep  and  dread  ; 
So  the  dark  clouds  with  gathering  power 
Suspend  awhile  the  threatened  shower, 
Till  every  peak  and  summit  lower 

Round  the  pale  pilgrim's  head. 
Not  with  such  pilgrim's  startled  eye 
King  Robert  marked  the  tempest  nigh  ! 

Resolved  the  brunt  to  bide, 
His  royal  summons  warned  the  land 
That  all  who  owned  their  king's  command 
Should  instant  take  the  spear  and  brand 

lo  combat  at  his  side. 
O,  who  may  tell  the  sons  of  fame 
That  at  King  Robert's  bidding  came 

I  o  battle  for  the  right ! 


THE  LORD    OF   THE  ISLES. 


411 


From  Cheviot  to  the  shores  of  Ross, 
From  Solway-Sands  to  Marshal's-Moss, 

All  bouned  them  for  the  fight. 
Such  news  the  royal  courier  tells 
Who  came  to  rouse  dark  Arran's  dells  ; 
But  farther  tidings  must  the  ear 
Of  Isabel  in  secret  hear. 
These  in  her  cloister  walk  next  morn 
Thus  shared  she  with  the  Maid  of  Lorn 


VI. 

1  My  Edith,  can  I  tell  how  dear 
Our  intercourse  of  hearts  sincere 


VII. 

1  No  !  never  to  Lord  Ronald's  bower 
Will  I  again  as  paramour '  — 
1  Nay,  hush  thee,  too  impatient  maid, 
Until  my  final  tale  be  said  !  — 
The  goo'd  King  Robert  would  engage 
Edith  once  more  his  elfin  page, 
By  her  own  heart  and  her  own  eye 
Her  lover's  penitence  to  try  — 
Safe  in  his  royal  charge  and  free, 
Should  such  thy  final  purpose  be, 
Again  unknown  to  seek  the  cell, 
And  live  and  die  with  Isabel.* 


Hath  been  to  Isabel  ?  — 
Judge  then  the  sorrow  of  my  heart 
When  I  must  say  the  words,  We  part ! 

The  cheerless  convent-cell 
Was  not,  sweet  maiden,  made  for  thee  ; 
Go  thou  where  thy  vocation  free 

On  happier  fortunes  fell. 
Nor,  Edith,  judge  thyself  betrayed, 
Though    Robert  knows   that   Lorn's   high 

maid 
And  his  poor  silent  page  were  one. 
Versed  in  the  fickle  heart  of  man, 
Earnest  and  anxious  hath  he  looked 
How  Ronald's  heart  the  message  brooked 
That  gave  him  with  her  last  farewell 
The  charge  of  Sister  Isabel, 
To  think  upon  thy  better  right 
And  keep  the  faith  his  promise  plight. 
Forgive  him  for  thy  sister's  sake 
At  first  if  vain  repinings  wake  — 

Long  since  that  mood  is  gone  : 
Now  dwells  he  on  thy  juster  claims, 
And  oft  his  breach  of  faith  he  blames  — 

Forgive  him  for  thine  own  ! '  — 


Thus  spoke  the  maid  —  King  Robert's  eye 
Might  have  some  glance  of  policy ; 
Dunstaffnage  had  the  monarch  ta'en, 
And  Lorn  had  owned  King  Robert's  reign ; 
Her  brother  had  to  England  fled, 
And  there  in  banishment  was  dead ; 
Ample,  through  exile,  death,  and  flight, 
O'er  tower  and  land  was  Edith's  right ; 
This  ample  right  o'er  tower  and  land 
Were  safe  in  Ronald's  faithful  hand. 

VIII. 

Embarrassed  eye  and  blushing  cheek 
Pleasure  and  shame  and  fear  bespeak  ! 
Yet  much  the  reasoning  Edith  made : 
1  Her  sister's  faith  she  must  upbraid, 
Who  gave  such  secret,  dark  and  dear, 
In  council  to  another's  ear. 
Why  should  she  leave  the  peaceful  cell  ?  — 
How  should  she  part  with  Isabel?  — 
How  wear  that  strange  attire  agen?  — 
How  risk  herself  midst  martial  men  ?  — 
And  how  be  guarded  on  the  way  ?  — 
At  least  she  might  entreat  delay.' 


412 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL    WORKS. 


Kind  Isabel  with  secret  smile 
Saw  and  forgave  the  maiden's  wile, 
Reluctant  to  be  thought  to  move 
At  the  first  call  of  truant  love. 


IX. 

O,  blame  her  not !  — when  zephyrs  wake 
The  aspen's  trembling  leaves  must  shake  ; 
When  beams  the  sun  through  April's  shower 
It  needs  must  bloom,  the  violet  flower ; 
And  Love,  howe'er  the  maiden  strive, 
Must  with  reviving  hope  revive  ! 
A  thousand  soft  excuses  came 
To  plead  his  cause  'gainst  virgin  shame. 
Pledged  by  their  sires  in  earliest  youth, 
He  had  her  plighted  faith  and  truth  — 
Then,  't  was  her  liege's  strict  command, 
And  she  beneath  his  royal  hand 
A  ward  in  person  and  in  land  :  — 
And,  last,  she  was  resolved  to  stay 
Only  brief  space  —  one  little  day  — 
Close  hidden  in  her  safe  disguise 
From  all,  but  most  from  Ronald's  eyes  — 
But  once  to  see  him  more !  —  nor  blame 
Her  wish  —  to  hear  him  name  her  name  !  — 
Then  to  bear  back  to  solitude 
The  thought  he  had  his  falsehood  rued  ! 
But  Isabel,  who  long  had  seen 
Her  pallid  cheek  and  pensive  mien, 
And  well  herself  the  cause  might  know, 
Though  innocent,  of  Edith's  woe, 
Joyed,  generous,  that  revolving  time 
Gave  means  to  expiate  the  crime. 
High  glowed  her  bosom  as  she  said, 
1  Well  shall  her  sufferings  be  repaid  ! ' 
Now  came  the  parting  hour  —  a  band 
From  Arran's  mountains  left  the  land; 
Their  chief,  Fitz-Louis,  had  the  care 
The  speechless  Amadine  to  bear 
To  Bruce  with  honor,  as  behoved 
To  page  the  monarch  dearly  loved. 


The  king  had  deemed  the  maiden  bright 
Should  reach  him  long  before  the  fight, 
Bui  storms  and  fate  her  course  delay  : 
It  was  on  eve  of  battle-day 
When  o'er  the  Gillie's-hill  she  rode. 
The  landscape  like  a  furnace  glowed, 
And  tar  as  e CI  the  eye  was  borne 
'I'ht  lances  waved  like  autumn-corn. 
In  battle!  lour  beneath  their  eye 
Tin-  forces  of  King  Robert  lie. 

And  one  below  the  hill  was  laid. 
Reserved  for  rescue  and  lor  aid  ; 

And  three  advanced  formed  vaward-line, 
"I'wi.xt  Banna  k's  brook  and  Ninian's shrine. 
Detached  was  each,  yet  each  so  nigh 

As  well  might  mutual   aid  supply. 


Beyond,  the  Southern  host  appears, 
A  boundless  wilderness  of  spears, 
Whose  verge  or  rear  the  anxious  eye 
Strove  far,  but  strove  in  vain,  to  spy. 
Thick  flashing  in  the  evening  beam, 
Glaives,  lances,  bills,  and  banners  gleam  ; 
And  where  the  heaven  joined  with  the  hill, 
Was  distant  armor  flashing  still, 
So  wide,  so  far,  the  boundless  host 
Seemed  in  the  blue, horizon  lost. 

XI. 

Down  from  the  hill  the  maiden  passed, 
At  the  wild  show  of  war  aghast ; 
And  traversed  first  the  rearward  host, 
Reserved  for  aid 'where  needed  most. 
The  men  of  Carrick  and  of  Ayr, 
Lennox  and  Lanark  too,  were  there, 

And  all  the  western  land; 
With  these  the  valiant  of  the  Isles 
Beneath  their  chieftains  ranked  their  files 

In  many  a  plaided  band. 
There  in  the  centre  proudly  raised, 
The  Bruce's  royal  standard  blazed, 
And  there  Lord  Ronald's  banner  bore 
A  galley  driven  by  sail  and  oar. 
A  wild  yet  pleasing  contrast  made 
Warriors  in  mail  and  plate  arrayed 
With -the  plumed  bonnet  and  the  plaid 

By  these  Hebrideans  worn  ; 
But  O,  unseen  for  three  long  years, 
Dear  was  the  garb  of  mountaineers 

To  the  fair  Maid  of  Lorn ! 
For  one  she  looked  —  but  he  was  far 
Busied  amid  the  ranks  of  war  — 
Yet  with  affection's  troubled  eye 
She  marked  his  banner  boldly  fly, 
Gave  on  the  countless  foe  a  glance, 
And  thought  on  battle's  desperate  chance. 


To  centre  of  the  vaward-line 
Fitz-Louis  guided  Amadine. 
Armed  all  on  foot,  that  host  appears 
A  serried  mass  of  glimmering  spears. 
There  stood  the  Marchers'  warlike  band, 
The  warriors  there  of  Lodon's  land ; 
Ettrick  and  Liddell  bent  the  yew, 
A  band  of  archers  fierce  though  few ; 
The  men  of  Nith  and  Annan's  vale, 
And  the  bold  Spears  of  Teviotdale  ;  — 
The  dauntless  Douglas  these  obey, 
And  the  young  Stuart's  gentle  sway. 
Northeastward  by  Saint  Ninian's  shrine, 
Beneath  fierce  Randolph's  charge,  combine 
The  warriors  whom  the  hardy.  North 
From  Tay  to  Sutherland  sent  forth. 
The  rest  of  Scotland's  war-array 
With  Edward  Bruce  to  westward  lay, 


THE  LORD   OF   THE  ISLES. 


413 


Where  Bannock  with  his  broken  bank 
And  deep  ravine  protects  their  flank. 
Behind  them,  screened  by  sheltering  wood, 
The  gallant  Keith,  Lord  Marshal,  stood : 
His  men-at-arms  bare  mace  and  lance, 
And  plumes  that  wave  and  helms  that  glance. 
Thus  fair  divided  by  the  king, 
Centre  and  right  and  leftward  wing 
Composed  his  front ;  nor  distant  far 
Was  strong  reserve  to  aid  the  war. 
And  't  was  to  front  of  this  array 
Her  guide  and  Edith  made  their  way. 

XIII. 

Here  must  they  pause ;  for,  in  advance 

As  far  as  one  might  pitch  a  lance, 

The  monarch  rode  along  the  van, 

The  foe's  approaching  force  to  scan, 

His  line  to  marshal  and  to  range, 

And  ranks  to  square,  and  fronts  to  change. 

Alone  he  rode  —  from  head  to  heel 

Sheathed  in  his  ready  arms  of  steel ; 

Nor  mounted  yet  on  war-horse  wight, 

But,  till  more  near  the  shock  of  fight, 

Reining  a  palfrey  low  and  light. 

A  diadem  of  gold  was  set 

Above  his  bright  steel  basinet, 

And  clasped  within  its  glittering  twine 

Was  seen  the  glove  of  Argentine ; 

Truncheon  or  leading  staff  he  lacks, 


Bearing  instead  a  battle-axe. 

He  ranged  his  soldiers  for  the  fight 

Accoutred  thus,  in  open  sight 

Of  either  host.  —  Three  bowshots  far, 

Paused  the  deep  front  of  England's  war, 

And  rested  on  their  arms  awhile, 

To  close  and  rank  their  warlike  file, 

And  hold  high  council  if  that  night 

Should  view  the  strife  or  dawning  light. 

XIV. 

O,  gay  yet  fearful  to  behold, 

Flashing  with  steel  and  rough  with  gold, 

And  bristled  o'er  with  bills  and  spears, 
With  plumes  and  pennons  waving  fair, 
Was  that  bright  battle-front !  for  there 

Rode  England's  king  and  peers  : 
And  who,  that  saw  that  monarch  ride, 
His  kingdom  battled  by  his  side, 
Could  then  his  direful  doom  foretell !  — 
Fair  was  his  seat  in  knightly  selle, 
And  in  his  sprightly  eye  was  set 
Some  spark  of  the  Plantagenet. 
Though  light  and  wandering  was  his  glance, 
It  flashed  at  sight  of  shield  and  lance. 
'  Know'st  thou,'  he  said,  '  De  Argentine, 
Yon  knight  who  marshals  thus  their  line  ? '  — 
'  The  tokens  on  his  helmet  tell 
The  Bruce,  my  liege  :  I  know  him  well.'  — 
'  And  shall  the  audacious  traitor  brave 


414 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


The  presence  where  our  banners  wave  ?  — 
'  So  please  my  liege,'  said  Argentine, 
4  Were  he  but  horsed  on  steed  like  mine, 
To  give  him  fair  and  knightly  chance, 
I  would  adventure  forth  my  lance.'  — 
« In  battle-day,'  the  king  replied, 
4  Nice  tourney  rules  are  set  aside.  — 
Still  must  the  rebel  dare  our  wrath  ? 
Set  on  him  —  Sweep  him  from  our  path  ! ' 
And  at  King  Edward's  signal  soon 
Dashed  from  the  ranks  Sir  Henry  Boune. 


xv. 

Of  Hereford's  high  blood  he  came, 

A  race  renowned  for  knightly  fame. 

He  burned  before  his  monarch's  eye 

To  do  some  deed  of  chivalry. 

He  spurred  his  steed,  he  couched  his  lance, 

And  darted  on  the  Bruce  at  once. 

As  motionless  as  rocks  that  bide 

The  wrath  of  the  advancing  tide, 

The  Bruce  stood  fast.  —  Each  breast  beat 

high 
And  dazzled  was  each  gazing  eye  — 
The  heart  had  hardly  time  to  think, 
The  eyelid  scarce  had  time  to  wink, 
While  on  the  king,  like  flash  of  flame, 
Spurred  to  full  speed  the  war-horse  came  ! 
The  partridge  may  the  falcon  mock, 
If  that  slight  palfrey  stand  the  shock  — 
But,  swerving  from  the  knight's  career, 
Just  as  they  met,  Bruce  shunned  the  spear. 
Onward  the  baffled  warrior  bore 
His    course  —  but   soon    his    course   was 

o'er!  — 
High  in  his  stirrups  stood  the  king, 
And  gave  his  battle-axe  the  swing. 
Right  on  De  Boune  the  whiles  he  passed 
Fell  that  stern  dint  —  the  first  —  the  last !  — 
Such  strength  upon  the  blow  was  put 
The  helmet  crashed  like  hazel-nut ; 
The  axe-shaft  with  its  brazen  clasp 
Was  shivered  to  the  gauntlet  grasp. 
Springs  from  the  blow  the  startled  horse, 
Drops  to  the  plain  the  lifeless  corse ; 
First  of  that  fatal  field,  how  soon, 
How  sudden,  fell  the  fierce  De  Boune  ! 


XVI. 

One  pitying  glance  the  monarch  sped 

Where  on  the  field  his  foe  lay  dead; 

Then  gently  turned  his  palfrey's  head, 

And,  pacing  back  his  sober  way, 

Slowly  he  gained  his  own  array. 

There  round  their  king  the  leaders  crowd, 

And  blame  his  recklessness  aloud 

That  risked  gainst  each  adventurous  spear 

A  life  so  valued  and  so  dear. 

His  broken  weapon's  shaft  surveyed 


The  king,  and  careless  answer  made, 
4  My  loss  may  pay  my  folly's  tax  ; 
I  've  broke  my  trusty  battle-axe.' 
'T  was  then  Fitz- Louis  bending  low 
Did  Isabel's  commission  show; 
Edith  disguised  at  distance  stands, 
And  hides  her  blushes  with  her  hands. 
The  monarch's  brow  has  changed  its  hue, 
Away  the  gory  axe  he  threw, 
While  to  the  seeming  page  he  drew, 

Clearing  war's  terrors  from  his  eye. 
Her  hand  with  gentle  ease  he  took 
With  such  a  kind  protecting  look 

As  to  a  weak  and  timid  boy 
Might  speak  that  elder  brother's  care 
And  elder  brother's  love  were  there. 


'  Fear  not,'  he  said,  '  young  Amadine  ! ' 

Then  whispered,  '  Still  that  name  be  thine. 

Fate  plays  her  wonted  fantasy, 

Kind  Amadine,  with  thee  and  me, 

And  sends  thee  here  in  doubtful  hour. 

But  soon  we  are  beyond  her  power ; 

For  on  this  chosen  battle-plain, 

Victor  or  vanquished,  I  remain. 

Do  thou  to  yonder  hill  repair; 

The  followers  of  our  host  are  there, 

And  all  who  may  not  weapons  bear.  — 

Fitz-Louis,  have  him  in  thy  care.  — 

Joyful  we  meet,  if  all  go  well ; 

If  not,  in  Arran's  holy  cell 

Thou  must  take  part  with  Isabel ; 

For  brave  Lord  Ronald  too  hath  sworn, 

Not  to  regain  the  Maid  of  Lorn  — 

The  bliss  on  earth  he  covets  most  — 

Would  he  forsake  his  battle-post, 

Or  shun  the  fortune  that  may  fall 

To  Bruce,  to  Scotland,  and  to  all.  — 

But,  hark  !  some  news  these  trumpets  tell ; 

Forgive  my  haste  —  farewell !  — farewell ! ' 

And  in  a  lower  voice  he  said, 

'Be  of  good  cheer — farewell,  sweet  maid!' 

XVIII. 

*  What  train  of  dust,  with  trumpet-sound 
And  glimmering  spears,  is  wheeling  round 
Our  leftward  flank?'  —  the  monarch  cried 
To  Moray's  Earl  who  rode  beside. 

4  Lo !  round  thy  station  pass  the  foes  ! 
Randolph,  thy  wreath  hath  lost  a  rose." 
The  Earl  his  visor  closed,  and  said 

*  My  wreath  shall  bloom,  or  life  shall  fade.  — 
Follow,  my  household  ! '  and  they  go 
Like  lightning  on  the  advancing  foe. 

1  My  liege,'  said  noble  Douglas  then, 
1  Earl  Randolph  has  but  one  to  ten : 
Let  me  go  forth  his  band  to  aid  !  '  — 
4  Stir  not.     The  error  he  hath  made, 


THE  LORD   OF  THE  ISLES. 


415 


Let  him  amend  it  as  he  may ; 
I  will  not  weaken  mine  array.' 
Then  loudly  rose  the  conflict-cry, 
And  Douglas's  brave  heart  swelled  high, 
'  My  liege,'  he  said,  '  with  patient  ear 
I  must  not  Moray's  death-knell  hear  ! '  — 
'  Then  go  —  but  speed  thee  back  again.' 
Forth  sprung  the  Douglas  with  his  train 
But  when  they  won  a  rising  hill 
He  bade  his  followers  hold  them  still.  — 
'  See,  see  !  the  routed  Southern  fly  ! 
The  Earl  hath  won  the  victory. 


Ah  !  gentle  planet !  other  sight 
Shall  greet  thee,  next  returning  night, 
Of  broken  arms  and  banners  tore, 
And  marshes  dark  with  human  gore, 
And  piles  of  slaughtered  men  and  horse, 
And  Forth  that  floats  the  frequent  corse, 
And  many  a  wounded  wretch  to  plain 
Beneath  thy  silver  light  in  vain  ! 
But  now  from  England's  host  the  cry 
Thou  hear  s't  of  wassail  revelry, 
While  from  the  Scottish  legions  pass 
The  murmured  prayer,  the  early  mass !  — 


Lo  !  where  yon  steeds  run  masterless, 
His  banner  towers  above  the  press. 
Rein  up  ;  our  presence  would  impair 
The  fame  we  come  too  late  to  share.' 
Back  to  the  host  the  Douglas  rode, 
And  soon  glad  tidings  are  abroad 
That,  Dayncourt  by  stout  Randolph  slain, 
His  followers  fled  with  loosened  rein. — 
That  skirmish  closed  the  busy  day, 
And  couched  in  battle's  prompt  array, 
Each  army  on  their  weapons  lay. 

XIX. 

It-was  a  night  of  lovely  June, 

High  rode  in  cloudless  blue  the  moon, 

Demayet  smiled  beneath  her  ray ; 
Old  Stirling's  towers  arose  in  light, 
And,  twined  in  links  of  silver  bright, 

Her  winding  river  lay. 


Here,  numbers  had  presumption  given; 
There,  bands  o'er-matched  sought  aid  from 
Heaven. 


xx. 

On  Gillie's-hill,  whose  height  commands 
The  battle-field,  fair  Edith  stands 
With  serf  and  page  unfit  for  war, 
To  eye  the  conflict  from  afar. 
O,  with  what  doubtful  agony 
She  sees  the  dawning  tint  the  sky  !  — 
Now  on  the  Ochils  gleams  the  sun, 
And  glistens  now  Demayet  dun; 
Is  it  the  lark  that  carols  shrill, 
Is  it  the  bittern's  early  hum  ? 
No  !  —  distant,  but  increasing  still, 
The  trumpet's  sound  swells  up  the  hill, 
With  the  deep  murmur  of  the  drum. 
Responsive  from  the  Scottish  host, 


416 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL    WORKS. 


Pipe-clang  and  bugle-sound  were  tossed, 
His  breast  and  brow  each  soldier  crossed 

And  started  from  the  ground  ; 
Armed  and  arrayed  for  instant  fight, 
Rose  archer,  spearman,  squire  and  knight, 
And  in  the  pomp  of  battle  bright 

The  dread  battalia  frowned. 

XXI. 

Now  onward  and  in  open  view 

The  countless  ranks  of  England  drew, 

Dark  rolling  like  the  ocean-tide 

When  the  rough  west  hath  chafed  his  pride, 

And  his  deep  roar  sends  challenge  wide 

To  all  that  bars  his  way  ! 
In  front  the  gallant  archers  trode, 
The  men-at-arms  behind  them  rode, 
And  midmost  of  the  phalanx  broad 

The  monarch  held  his  sway. 
Beside  him  many  a  war-horse  fumes, 
Around  him  waves  a  sea  of  plumes, 
Where  many  a  knight  in  battle  known, 
And  some  who  spurs  had  first  braced  on 
And  deemed  that  fight  should  see  them  won, 
'    King  Edward's  hests  obey. 
De  Argentine  attends  his  side, 
With  stout  De  Valence,  Pembroke's  pride, 
Selected  champions  from  the  train 
To  wait  upon  his  bridle-rein. 
Upon  the  Scottish  foe  he  gazed  — 
At  once  before  his  sight  amazed 

Sunk  banner,  spear,  and  shield : 
Each  weapon-point  is  downward  sent, 
Each  warrior  to  the  ground  is  bent. 
'The  rebels,  Argentine,  repent! 

For  pardon  they  have  kneeled.'  — 
4  Ay  !  —  but  they  bend  to  other  powers, 
And  other  pardon  sue  than  ours ! 
See  where  yon  barefoot  abbot  stands 
And  blesses  them  with  lifted  hands  ! 
Upon  the  spot  where  they  have  kneeled 
These  men  will  die  or  win  the  field.'  —     • 
1  Then  prove  we  if  they  die  or  win  ! 
Bid  Gloster's  Earl  the  fight  begin.' 

XXII. 

Earl  Gilbert  waved  his  truncheon  high 

Just  as  the  Northern  ranks  arose, 
Signal  for  England's  archery 

To  halt  and  bend  their  bows. 
Then  stepped  each  yeoman  forth  a  pace, 
<  i lanced  at  the  intervening  space, 

And  raised  his  left  hand  high  ; 

To  the  right  ear  the  cords  they  bring 

At  once  ten  thousand  bow-strings  ring, 

Ten  thousand  arrows  fly  ! 
Nor  paused  on  the  devoted  Scot 
The  ceaseless  fury  of  their  shot; 

As  fiercely  and  as  fast 


Forth  whistling  came  the  gray-goose  wing 
As  the  wild  hailstones  pelt  and  ring 

Adown  December's  blast. 
Nor  mountain  targe  of  tough  bull-hide, 
Nor  lowland  mail,  that  storm  may  bide ; 
Woe,  woe  to  Scotland's  bannered  pride, 

If  the  fell  shower  may  last ! 
Upon  the  right  behind  the  wood, 
Each  by  his  steed  dismounted  stood 

The  Scottish  chivalry  ;  — 
With  foot  in  stirrup,  hand  on  mane, 
Fierce  Edward  Bruce  can  scarce  restrain 
His  Own  keen  heart,  his  eager  train, 
Until  the  archers  gained  the  plain; 

Then,  '  Mount,  ye  gallants  free  ! ' 
He  cried;  and  vaulting  from  the  ground 
His  saddle  every  horseman  found. 
On  high  their  glittering  crests  they  toss, 
As  springs  the  wild-fire  from  the  moss  ; 
The  shield  hangs  down  on  every  breast, 
Each  ready  lance  is  in  the  rest, 

And  loud  shouts  Edward  Bruce, 
1  Forth,  Marshal !  on  the  peasant  foe  ! 
We  '11  tame  the  terrors  of  their  bow, 

And  cut  the  bow-string  loose  ! ' 

XXIII. 

Then  spurs  were  dashed  in  chargers'  flanks, 
They  rushed  among  the  archer  ranks. 
No  spears  were  there  the  shock  to  let, 
No  stakes  to  turn  the  charge  were  set, 
And  how  shall  yeoman's  armor  slight 
Stand  the  longJance  and  mace  of  might  ? 
Or  what  may  their  short  swords  avail 
'Gainst  barbed  horse  and  shirt  of  mail? 
Amid  their  ranks  the  chargers  sprung, 
High  o'er  their  heads  the  weapons  swung, 
And  shriek  and  groan  and  vengeful  shout 
Give  note  of  triumph  and  of  rout ! 
Awhile  with  stubborn  hardihood     . 
Their  English  hearts  the  strife  made  good. 
Borne  down  at  length  on  every  side, 
Compelled  to  flight  they  scatter  wide.  — 
Let  stags  of  Sherwood  leap  for  glee, 
And  bound  the  deer  of  Dallom-Lee  ! 
The  broken  vows  of  Bannock's  shore 
Shall  in  the  greenwood  ring  no  more  ! 
Round  Wakefield's  merry  May-pole  now 
The  maids  may  twine  the  summer  bough, 
May  northward  look  with  longing  glance 
For  those  that  wont  to  lead  the  dance, 
For  the  blithe  archers  look  in  vain  ! 
Broken,  dispersed,  in  flight  o'erta'en, 
Pierced  through,  trode  down,  by  thousands 

slain, 
They  cumber  Bannock's  bloody  plain. 

XXIV. 

The  king  with  scorn  beheld  their  flight. 
Are  these,'  he  said,  '  our  yeomen  wight  ? 


THE  LORD   OF   THE  ISLES. 


417 


1  Each  braggart  churl  could  boast  before 
Twelve  Scottish  lives  his  baldric  bore  ! 
Fitter  to  plunder  chase  or  park 
Than  make  a  manly  foe  their  mark.  — 
Forward,  each  gentleman  and  knight ! 
Let  gentle  blood  show  generous  might 
And  chivalry  redeem  the  fight ! ' 
To  rightward  of  the  wild  affray, 
The  field  showed  fair  and  level  way ; 

But  in  mid-space  the  Bruce's  care 
Had  bored  the  ground  with  many  a  pit, 
With  turf  and  brushwood  hidden  yet, 

That  formed  a  ghastly  snare. 
Rushing,  ten  thousand  horsemen  came, 
With  spears  in  rest  and  hearts  on  flame 

That  panted  for  the  shock  ! 
With  blazing  crests  and  banners  spread, 
And  trumpet-clang  and  clamor  dread, 
The  wide  plain  thundered  to  their  tread 

As  far  as  Stirling  rock. 
Down !  down  !  in  headlong  overthrow, 
Horseman  and  horse,  the  foremost  go, 

Wild  floundering  on  the  field  ! 
The  first  are  in  destruction's  gorge, 
Their  followers  wildly  o'er  them  urge  ;  — > 

The  knightly  helm  and  shield, 
The  mail,  the  acton,  and  the  spear, 
Strong  hand,  high  heart,  are  useless  here  ! 
Loud  from  the  mass  confused  the  cry 
Of  dying  warriors  swells  on  high. 
And  steeds  that  shriek  in  agony  ! 
They  came  like  mountain-torrent  red 
That  thunders  o'er  its  rocky  bed  ; 
They  broke  like  that  same  torrent's  wave 
When  swallowed  by  a  darksome  cave. 
Billows  on  billows  burst  and  boil, 
Maintaining  still  the  stern  turmoil, 
And  to.  their  wild  and  tortured  groan 
Each  adds  new  terrors  of  his  own  ! 

xxv. 
Too  strong  in  courage  and  in  might 
Was  England  yet  to  yield  the  fight. 

Her  noblest  all  are  here ; 
Names  that  to  fear  were  never  known, 
Bold  Norfolk's  Earl  De  Brotherton, 

And  Oxford's  famed  De  Vere. 
There  Gloster  plied  the  bloody  sword, 
And  Berkley,  Grey,  and  Hereford, 

Bottetourt  and  Sanzavere, 
Ross,  Montague,  and  Mauley  came, 
And  Courtenay's  pride,  and  Percy's  fame  — 
Names  known  too  well  in  Scotland's  war 
At  Falkirk,  Methven,  and  Dunbar, 
Blazed  broader  yet  in  after  years 
At  Cressy  red  and  fell  Poitiers. 
Pembroke  with  these  and  Argentine 
Brought  up  the  rearward  battle-line. 
With  caution  o'er  the  ground  they  tread, 
Slippery  with  blood  and  piled  with  dead, 


Till  hand  to  hand  in  battle  set, 
The  bills  with  spears  and  axes  met. 
And,  closing  dark  on  every  side, 
Raged  the  full  contest  far  and  wide. 
Then  was  the  strength  of  Douglas  tried, 
Then  proved  was  Randolph's  generous  pride, 
And  well  did  Stewart's  actions  grace 
The  sire  of  Scotland's  royal  race  ! 

Firmly  they  kept  their  ground; 
As  firmly  England  onward  pressed. 
And  down  went  many  a  noble  crest, 
And  rent  was  many  a  valiant  breast, 

And  Slaughter  revelled  round. 

XXVI. 

Unflinching  foot  'gainst  foot  was  set, 
Unceasing  blow  by  blow  was  met ; 

The  groans  of  those  who  fell 
Were  drowned  amid  the  shriller  clang 
That  from  the  blades  and  harness  rang, 

And  in  the  battle-yell. 
Yet  fast  they  fell,  unheard,  forgot, 
Both  Southern  fierce  and  hardy  Scot ; 
And  O,  amid  that  waste  of  life 
What  various  motives  fired  the  strife  ! 
The  aspiring  noble  bled  for  fame, 
The  patriot  for  his  country's  claim  ; 
This  knight  his  youthful  strength  to  prove, 
And  that  to  win  his  lady's  love ; 
Some  fought  from  ruflian  thirst  of  blood, 
From  habit  some  or  hardihood. 
But  ruffian  stern  and  soldier  good, 

The  noble  and  the  slave, 
From  various  cause  the  same  wild  road, 
On  the  same  bloody  morning,  trode 

To  that  dark  inn,  the  grave  ! 

xxvi  1. 
The  tug  of  strife  to  flag  begins, 
Though  neither  loses  yet  nor  wins. 
High  rides  the  sun,  thick  rolls  the  dust, 
And  feebler  speeds  the  blow  and  thrust. 
Douglas  leans  on  his  war-sword  now, 
And  Randolph  wipes  his  bloody  brow ; 
Nor  less  had  toiled  each  Southern  knight 
From  morn  till  mid-day  in  the  fight. 
Strong  Egremont  for  air  must  gasp, 
Beauchamp  undoes  his  visor-clasp, 
And  Montague  must  quit  his  spear, 
And  sinks  thy  falchion,  bold  De  Vere  ! 
The  blows  of  Berkley  fall  less  fast, 
And  gallant  Pembroke's  bugle-blast 

Hath  lost  its  lively  tone ; 
Sinks,  Argentine,  thy  battle-word, 
And  Percy's  shout  was  fainter  heard,  — 

1  My  merry-men,  fight  on ! ' 

XXVIII. 

Bruce,  with  the  pilot's  wary  eye, 

The  slackening  of  the  storm  could  spy. 


2- 


418 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


k  One  effort  more  and  Scotland  's  free  ! 
Lord  of  the  Isles,  my  trust  in  thee 

Is  firm  as  Ailsa  Rock ; 
Rush  on  with  Highland  sword  and  targe, 
I  with  my  Carrick  spearmen  charge  ; 

Now  forward  to  the  shock  ! ' 
At  once  the  spears  were  forward  thrown, 
Against  the  sun  the  broadswords  shone  ; 
The  pibroch  lent  its  maddening  tone, 
And    loud    King    Robert's    voice    was 

known  — 
'  Carrick,  press  on  —  they  fail,  they  fail ! 
Press  on,  brave  sons  of  Innisgail, 

The  foe  is  fainting  fast ! 
Each  strike  for  parent,  child,  and  wife, 
For  Scotland,  liberty,  and  life,  — 

The  battle  cannot  last ! ■ 

XXIX. 

The  fresh  and  desperate  onset  bore 
The  foes  three  furlongs  back  and  more, 
Leaving  their  noblest  in  their  gore. 

Alone,  De  Argentine 
Yet  bears  on  high  his  red-cross  shield, 
Gathers  the  relics  of  the  field, 
Renews  the  ranks  where  they  have  reeled, 

And  still  makes  good  the  line. 
Brief  strife  but  fierce  his  efforts  raise, 
A  bright  but  momentary  blaze. 
Fair  Edith  heard  the  Southern  shout, 
Beheld  them  turning  from  the  rout, 
Heard  the  wild  call  their  trumpets  sent 
In  notes  'twixt  triumph  and  lament. 
That  rallying  force,  combined  anew, 
Appeared  in  her  distracted  view 

To  hem  the  Islesmen  round; 
4  O  God  !  the  combat  they  renew, 

And  is  no  rescue  found  ! 
And  ye  that  look  thus  tamely  on, 
And  see  your  native  land  o'erthrown, 
O,  are  your  hearts  of  flesh  or  stone  ? ' 


XXX. 

The  multitude  that  watched  afar, 
Rejected  from  the  ranks  of  war, 
I  lad  not  unmoved  beheld  the  fight 
When    strove    the    Bruce    for    Scotland's 

right; 
Each  heart  had  caught  the  patriot  spark, 
Old  man  and  stripling,  priest  and  clerk, 
Bondsman  and  serf;  even  female  hand 
Stretched  to  the  hatchet  or  the  brand  ; 
But  when  mute  Amadine  they  heard 
Give  to  their  zeal  his  signal-word 

A  frenzy  fired  the  throng ;  — 
•  Portents  and  miracles  impeach 
Our  sloth  —  the  dumb  our  duties  teach  — 
And  he  that  gives  the  mute  his  speech 
Can  bid  the  weak  be  strong. 


A  native  earth,  a  promised  heaven ; 

To  us  as  to  our  lords  belongs 

The  vengeance  for  our  nation's  wrongs  ; 

The  choice  'twixt  death  or  freedom  warms 

Our  breasts  as  theirs  —  To  arms  !  to  arms  !  * 

To  arms  they  flew,  —  axe,  club,  or  spear,  — 

And  mimic  ensigns  high  they  rear, 

And,  like  a  bannered  host  afar, 

Bear  down  on  England's  wearied  war. 


Already  scattered  o'er  the  plain, 
Reproof,  command,  and  counsel  vain, 
The  rearward  squadrons  fled  amain 

Or  made  but  doubtful  stay  ;  — 
But  when  they  marked  the  seeming  show 
Of  fresh  and  fierce  and  marshalled  foe, 

The  boldest  broke  array. 
O,  give  their  hapless  prince  his  due  ! 
In  vain  the  royal  Edward  threw 

His  person  mid  the  spears, 
Cried,  '  Fight !  '  to  terror  and  despair, 
Menaced  and  wept  and  tore  his  hair, 

And  cursed  their  caitiff  fears  ; 
Till  Pembroke  turned  his  bridle  rein 
And  forced  him  from  the  fatal  plain. 
With  them  rode  Argentine  until 
They  gained  the  summit  of  the  hill, 

But  quitted  there  the  train  :  — 
'  In  yonder  field  a  gage  I  left, 
I  must  not  live  of  fame  bereft ; 

I  needs  must  turn  again. 
Speed  hence,  my  liege,  for  on  your  trace 
The  fiery  Douglas  takes  the  chase, 

I  know  his  banner  well. 
God  send  my  sovereign  joy  and  bliss, 
And  many  a  happier  field  than  this  !  — 

Once  more,  my  liege,  farewell ! ' 

XXXII. 

Again  he  faced  the  battle-field,  — 
Wildly  they  fly,  are  slain,  or  yield. 
1  Now  then,'  he  said,  and  couched  his  spear. 
'My  course  is  run,  the  goal  is  near; 
One  effort  more,  one  brave  career, 

Must  close  this  race  of  mine.' 
Then  in  his  stirrups  rising  high, 
He  shouted  loud  his  battle-cry, 

*  Saint  James  for  Argentine  ! ' 
And  of  the  bold  pursuers  four 
The  gallant  knight  from  saddle  bore ; 
But  not  unharmed  —  a  lance's  point 
Has  found  his  breastplate's  loosened  joint, 

An  axe  has  razed  his  crest; 
Yet  still  on  Colonsay's  fierce  lord, 
Who  pressed  the  chase  with  gory  sword, 

He  rode  with  spear  in  rest, 
And  through  his  bloody  tartans  bored 

And  through  his  gallant  breast. 


THE  LORD   OF   THE  ISLES. 


419 


Nailed  to  the  earth,  the  mountaineer 
Yet  writhed  him  up  against  the  spear, 

And  swung  his  broadsword  round  ! 
Stirrup,  steel-boot,  and  cuish  gave  way 
Beneath  that  blow's  tremendous  sway, 

The  blood  gushed  from  the  wound ; 
And  the  grjm  Lord  of  Colonsay 

Hath  turned  him  on  the  ground, 
And  laughed  in  death-pang  that  his  blade 
The  mortal  thrust  so  well  repaid. 


Now  toiled  the  Bruce,  the  battle  done, 
To  use  his  conquest  boldly  won ; 
And  gave  command  for  horse  and  spear 
To  press  the  Southron's  scattered  rear, 
Nor  let  his  broken  force  combine, 
When  the  war-cry  of  Argentine 

Fell  faintly  on  his  ear ; 
'  Save,  save  his  life,'  he  cried,  '  O/save 
The  kind,  the  noble,  and  the  brave  !  ■ 
The  squadrons  round  free  passage  gave, 

The  wounded  knight  drew  near ; 
He  raised  his  red-cross  shield  no  more, 
Helm,    cuish,    and    breastplate    streamed 

with  gore, 
Yet,  as  he  saw  the  king  advance, 
He  strove  even  then  to  couch  his  lance  — 

The  effort  was  in  vain  ! 
The  spur-stroke  failed  to  rouse  the  horse  ; 


Wounded  and  weary,  in  mid  course 

•He  stumbled  on  the  plain. 
Then  foremost  was  the  generous  Bruce 
To  raise  his  head,  his  helm  to  loose  ;  — 

'  Lord  Earl,  the  day  is  thine  ! 
My  sovereign's  charge  and  adverse  fate 
Have  made  our  meeting  all  too  late ; 

Yet  this  may  Argentine 
As  boon  from  ancient  comrade  crave  — 
A  Christian's  mass,  a  soldier's  grave.' 

xxxiv. 

Bruce  pressed  his  dying  hand  —  its  grasp 
Kindly  replied  ;  but,  in  his  clasp, 

It  stiffened  and  grew  cold  — 
1  And,  O  farewell ! '  the  victor  cried, 
'  Of  chivalry  the  flower  and  pride, 

The  arm  in  battle  bold, 
The  courteous  mien,  the  noble  race, 
The  stainless  faith,  the  manly  face  !  — 
Bid  Ninian's  convent  light  their  shrine 
For  late-wake  of  De  Argentine. 
O'er  better  knight  on  death-bier  laid 


Torch    never 
said !  ' 


gleamed     nor     mass    was 


XXXV. 


Nor  for  De  Argentine  alone 
Through    Ninian's   church    these    torches 
shone 


420 


SCOTT'S  POETIC  AT    WORKS. 


And  rose  the  death-prayer's  awful  tone. 

That  yellow  lustre  glimmered  pale 

On  broken  plate  and  bloodied  mail, 

Rent  crest  and  shattered  coronet, 

Of  baron,  earl,  and  banneret ; 

And  the  best  names  that  England  knew 

Claimed  in  the  death-prayer  dismal  due. 

Yet  mourn  not,  Land  of  Fame  ! 
Though  ne'er  the  Leopards  on  thy  shield 
Retreated  from  so  sad  a  field 

Since  Norman  William  came. 
Oft  may  thine  annals  justly  boast 
Of  battles  stern  by  Scotland  lost ; 

Grudge  not  her  victory 
When  for  her  freeborn  rights  she  strove  ; 
Rights  dear  to  all  who  freedom  love, 

To  none  so  dear  as  thee  ! 

xxxvi. 
Turn  we  to  Bruce  whose  curious  ear 
Must  from  Fitz-Louis  tidings  hear; 
With  him  a  hundred  voices  tell 
Of  prodigy  and  miracle, 

'  For  the  mute  page  had  spoke.'  — 
'  Page  ! '  said  Fitz-Louis,  '  rather  say 
An  angel  sent  from  realms  of  day 

To  burst  the  English  yoke. 
I  saw  his  plume  and  bonnet  drop 
When  hurrying  from  the  mountain  top  ; 
A  lovely  brow,  dark  locks  that  wave, 
To  his  bright  eyes  new  lustre  gave, 
A  step  as  light  upon  the  green, 
As  if  his  pinions  waved  unseen  ! ' 


'  Spoke  he  with    none  ? '  — '  With  none  — 

one  word 
Burst  when  he  saw  the  Island  Lord 
Returning  from  the  battle-field.'  — 
'What  answer  made   the   chief?' — 'He 

kneeled, 
Durst  not  look  up,  but  muttered  low 
Some    mingled    sounds   that    none    might 

know, 
And  greeted  him  'twixt  joy  and  fear 
As  being  of  superior  sphere.' 

XXXVII. 

Even  upon  Bannock's  bloody  plain 
Heaped  then  with  thousands  of  the  slain, 
Mid  victor  monarch's  musings  high, 
Mirth  laughed  in  good  King  Robert's  eye :  — 
'  And  bore  he  such  angelic  air, 
Such  noble  front,  such  waving  hair  ? 
Hath  Ronald  kneeled  to  him  ?'  he  said; 
'  Then  must  we  call  the  church  to  aid  — 
Our  will  be  to  the  abbot  known 
Ere  these  strange  news  are  wider  blown, 
To  Cambuskenneth  straight  he  pass 
And  deck  the  church  for  solemn  mass, 
To  pay  for  high  deliverance  given 
A  nation's  thanks  to  gracious  Heaven. 
Let  him  array  besides  such  state, 
As  should  on  princes'  nuptials  wait. 
Ourself  the  cause,  through  fortune's  spite, 
That  once  broke  short  that  spousal  rite, 
Ourself  will  grace  with  early  morn 
The  bridal  of  the  Maid  of  Lorn.' 


8Hje  Horo  of  tije  Mz&. 


CONCLUSION. 

Go  forth,  my  Song,  upon  thy  venturous  way ; 
Go  boldly  forth  ;  nor  yet  thy  master  blame 
Who  chose  no  patron  for  his  humble  lay, 
And  graced  thy  numbers  with  no  friendly  name 
Whose  partial  zeal  might  smooth  thy  path  to  fame. 
There  was —  and  O,  how  many  sorrows  crowd 
Into  these  two  brief  words  !  —  there  was  a  claim 
By  generous  friendship  given  —  had  fate  allowed, 
It  well  had  bid  thee  rank  the  proudest  of  the  proud ! 

All  angel  now  —  yet  little  less  than  all 
While  still  a  pilgrim  in  our  world  below  ! 
What  Vails  it  us  that  patience  to  recall 
Which  hid  its  own  to  soothe  all  other  woes ; 
What  'vails  to  tell  how  Virtue's  purest  glow 
Shone  yet  more  lovely  in  a  form  so  fair : 
And,  least  of  all,  what  'vails  the  world  should  know 
That  one  poor  garland,  twined  to  deck  thy  hair, 
Is  hung  upon  thy  hearse  to  droop  and  wither  there  ! 


THE'PIECD'OP' 


•WATERLOO 


Cf)e  fidn  of  Waterloo. 


Though  Valois  braved  young  Edward's  gentle  hand, 

And  Albert  rushed  on  Henry's  way-worn  band, 

With  Europe's  chosen  sons,  in  arms  renowned, 

Yet  not  on  Vere's  bold  archers  long  they  looked, 

Nor  Audley's  squires  nor  Mowbray's  yeomen  brooked,  — 

They  saw  their  standard  fall,  and  left  their  monarch  bound. 

Akenside. 


to 
HER  GRACE 

THE 


DUCHESS    OF    WELLINGTON, 

PRINCESS   OF  WATERLOO, 
&C,  &C,  &C, 

THE   FOLLOWING  VERSES 

ARE  MOST   RESPECTFULLY   INSCRIBED   BY 
THE  AUTHOR. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 

It  may  be  some  apology  for  the  imperfections  of  this  poem,  that  it  was  composed  hastily,  and  during  a  short  tour 
upon  the  Continent,  when  the  Author's  labors  were  liable  to  frequent  interruption;  but  its  best  apology  is,  that  it  was 
written  for  the  purpose  of  assisting  the  Waterloo  Subscription. 
Abbotsford,  1815. 


8Tfje  jFfelti  of  Waterloo. 


Fair  Brussels,  thou  art  far  behind, 
Though,  lingering  on  the  morning  wind, 

We  yet  may  hear  the  hour 
Pealed  over  orchard  and  canal, 
With  voice  prolonged  and  measured  fall, 

From  proud  Saint  Michael's  tower; 
Thy  wood,  dark  Soignies,  holds  us  now, 
Where  the  tall  beeches'  glossy  bough 

For  many  a  league  around, 
With  birch  and  darksome  oak  between. 
Spreads  deep  and  far  a  pathless  screen 

Of  tangled  forest  ground. 
Stems  planted  close  by  stems  defy 


The  adventurous  foot  —  the  curious  eye 

For  access  seeks  in  vain ; 
And  the  brown  tapestry  of  leaves, 
Strewed  on  the  blighted  ground,  receives 

Nor  sun  nor  air  nor  rain. 
No  opening  glade  dawns  on  our  way, 
No  streamlet  glancing  to  the  ray 

Our  woodland  path  has  crossed  ; 
And  the  straight  causeway  which  we  tread 
Prolongs  a  line  of  dull  arcade, 
Unvarying  through  the  unvaried  shade 

Until  in  distance  lost. 

11. 
A  brighter,  livelier  scene  succeeds  ; 
In  groups  the  scattering  wood  recedes, 


424 


scorrs  poetical  works. 


Hedge-rows,  and  huts,  and  sunny  meads, 

And  corn-fields  glance  between  ; 
The  peasant  at  his  labor  blithe 
Plies    the    hooked     staff    and    shortened 
scythe : — 

But  when  these  ears  were  green, 
Placed  close  within  destruction's  scope, 
Full  little  was  that  rustic's  hope 

Their  ripening  to  have  seen  ! 
And,  lo  !  a  hamlet  and  its  fane  :  — 
Let  not  the  gazer  with  disdain 

Their  architecture  view ; 
For  yonder  rude  ungraceful  shrine 
And  di. s proportioned  spire  are  thine, 

Immortal  WATERLOO  ! 


in. 

Fear  not  the  heat,  though  full  and  high 
Tin-  sun  has  scorched  the  autumn  sky, 
And  scarce  a  forest  straggler  now 
To  shade  us  spreads  a  -rrenwood  bough; 
These  fields  have  seen  a  hotter  day 
Than  e'er  was  fired  by  sunny  ray. 

in-  mile  on     -you  shattered  hedge 
i  he  soft  hill  whose  long  smooth  ridge 

Looks  on  the  field  below, 
And  sinks  so  gently  on  the  dale 
That  not  the  folds  of  Beauty's  veil 

In  easier  curves  can  flow. 


Brief  space  from  thence  the  ground  again 
Ascending  slowly  from  the  plain 

Forms  an  opposing  screen, 
Which  with  its  crest  of  upland  ground 
Shuts  the  horizon  all  around. 

The  softened  vale  between 
Slopes  smooth  and  fair  for  courser's  tread ; 
Not  the  most  timid  maid  need  dread 
To  give  her  snow-white  palfrey  head 

On  that  wide  stubble-ground  ; 
Nor  wood  nor  tree  nor  bush  are  there, 
Her  course  to  intercept  or  scare, 

Nor  fosse  nor  fence  are  found, 
Save  where  from  out  her  shattered  bowers 
Rise  Hougomont's  dismantled  towers. 

IV. 

Now,  see'st  thou  aught  in  this  lone  scene 
Can  tell  of  that  which  late  hath  been?  — 

A  stranger  might  reply, 
'  The  bare  extent  of  stubble-plain 
Seems  lately  lightened  of  its  grain: 
And  yonder  sable  tracks  remain 
Marks  of  the  peasant's  ponderous  wain 

When  harvest-home  was  nigh. 
On  these  broad  spots  of  trampled  ground 
Perchance  the  rustics  danced  such  round 

As  Teniers  loved  to  draw ; 
And  where  the  earth  seems  scorched  by 
flame, 


THE  FIELD   OF   WATERLOO. 


425 


To  dress  the  homely  feast  they  came, 
And  toiled  the  kerchiefed  village  dame 
Around  her  fire  of  straw.' 


v. 

So  deem'st  thou  —  so  each  mortal  deems 
Of  that  which  is  from  that  which  seems  :  — 

But  other  harvest  here 
Than  that  which  peasant's  scythe  demands 
Was  gathered  in  by  sterner  hands, 

With  bayonet,  blade,  and  spear. 
No  vulgar  crop  was  theirs  to  reap, 
No  stinted  harvest  thin  and  cheap  ! 


The  fierce  dragoon  through  battle's  flood 

Dashed  the  hot  war-horse  on. 
These  spots  of  excavation  tell 
The  ravage  of  the  bursting  shell  — 
And  feel'st  thou  not  the  tainted  steam 
That  reeks  against  the  sultry  beam 

From  yonder  trenched  mound  ? 
The  pestilential  fumes  declare 
That  Carnage  has  replenished  there 

Her  garner-house  profound. 

VII. 

Far  other  harvest-home  and  feast 

Than  claims  the  boor  from  scythe  released 


Heroes  before  each  fatal  sweep 

Fell  thick  as  ripened  grain ; 
And  ere  the  darkening  of  the  day, 
Piled  high  as  autumn  shocks  there  lay 
The  ghastly  harvest  of  the  fray, 
The  corpses  of  the  slain. 


Ay,  look  again  —  that  line  so  black 

And  trampled  marks  the  bivouac, 

Yon  deep-graved  ruts  the  artillery's  track, 

So  often  lost  and  won ; 
And  close  beside  the  hardened  mud 
Still  shows  where,  fetlock-deep  in  blood, 


On  these  scorched  fields  were  known  \ 
Death  hovered  o'er  the  maddening  rout, 
And  in  the  thrilling  battle-shout 
Sent  for  the  bloody  banquet  out 

A  summons  of  his  own. 
Through  rolling  smoke  the  Demon's  eye 
Could  well  each  destined  guest  espy, 
Well  could  his  ear  in  ecstasy 

Distinguish  every  tone 
That  filled  the  chorus  of  the  fray  — 
From  cannon-roar  and  trumpet-bray, 
From  charging  squadrons'  wild  hurra, 
From   the   wild   clang  that   marked   their 
way,  — 


426 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL    WORKS. 


Down  to  the  dying  groan 
And  the  last  sob  of  life's  decay 
When  breath  was  all  but  flown. 

VIII. 

Feast  on,  stern  foe  of  mortal  life, 
Feast  on  !  —  but  think  not  that  a  strife 
With  such  promiscuous  carnage  rife 

Protracted  space  may  last ; 
The  deadly  tug  of  war  at  length 
Must  limits  find  in  human  strength, 

And  cease  when  these  are  past. 
Vain  hope  !  — that  morn's  o'erclouded  sun 
Heard  the  wild  shout  of  fight  begun 

Ere  he  attained  his  height, 
And  through  the  war-smoke  volumed  high 
Still  peals  that  unremitted  cry, 

Though  now  he  stoops  to  night. 
For  ten  long  hours  of  doubt  and  dread, 
Fresh  succors  from  the  extended  head 
Of  either  hill  the  contest  fed ; 

Still  down  the  slope  they  drew, 
The  charge  of  columns  paused  not, 
Nor  ceased  the  storm  of  shell  and  shot ; 

For  all  that  war  could  do 
Of  skill  and  force  was  proved  that  day, 
And  turned  not  yet  the  doubtful  fray 

On  bloody  Waterloo. 

IX. 

Pale  Brussels  !  then  what  thoughts   were 

thine, 
When  ceaseless  from  the  distant  line 

Continued  thunders  came  ! 
Each  burgher  held  his  breath  to  hear 
These  forerunners  of  havoc  near, 

Of  rapine  and  of  flame. 
What  ghastly  sights  were  thine  to  meet, 
When,  rolling  through  thy  stately  street, 
The  wounded  showed  their  mangled  plight 
In  token  of  the  unfinished  fight, 
And  from  each  anguish-laden  wain 
The  blood-drops  laid  thy  dust  like  rain  ! 
How  often  in  the  distant  drum 
Heard'st  thou  the  fell  invader  come, 
While  Ruin,  shouting  to  his  band, 
Shook  high  her  torch  and  gory  brand  !  — 
Cheer  thee,  fair  city !     From  yon  stand 
Impatient  still  his  outstretched  hand 

Points  to  his  prey  in  vain, 
While,  maddening  in  his  eager  mood 
And  all  unwont  to  be  withstood, 

He  fires  the  fight  again. 

x. 

4  On  !  On! '  was  still  his  stern  exclaim  ; 
4  ( '(.nt rout  the  battery's  jaws  of  flame  ! 

Rush  on  the  levelled  gun  ! 
My  steel-clad  cuirassiers,  advance! 


Each  Hulan  forward  with  his  lance, 
My    Guard  —  my    chosen  —  charge     for 
France, 

France  and  Napoleon  ! ' 
Loud  answered  their  acclaiming  shout, 
Greeting  the  mandate  which  sent  out 
Their  bravest  and  their  best  to  dare 
The  fate  their  leader  shunned  to  share. 
But  He,  his  country's  sword  and  shield. 
Still  in  the  battle-front  revealed 
Where  danger  fiercest  swept  the  field, 

Came  like  a  beam  of  light, 
In  action  prompt,  in  sentence  brief  — 
1  Soldiers,  stand  firm  ! '  exclaimed  the  chief, 

'  England  shall  tell  the  fight ! ' 

XI. 

On  came  the  whirlwind  —  like  the  last 
But  fiercest  sweep  of  tempest-blast  — 
On  came  the  whirlwind — steel-gleams  broke 
Like  lightning  through  the  rolling  smoke  ; 

The  war  was  waked  anew, 
Three  hundred  cannon-mouths  roared  loud, 
And  from  their  throats  with  flash  and  cloud 

Their  showers  of  iron  threw. 
Beneath  their  fire  in  full  career 
Rushed  on  the  ponderous  cuirassier, 
The  lancer  couched  his  ruthless  spear, 
And  hurrying  as  to  havoc  near 

The  cohorts'  eagles  flew. 
In  one  dark  torrent  broad  and  strong 
The  advancing  onset  rolled  along, 
Forth  harbingered  by  fierce  acclaim, 
That  from  the  shroud  of  smoke  and  flame 
Pealed  wildly  the  imperial  name. 


XII. 

But  on  the  British  heart  were  lost 
The  terrors  of  the  charging  host; 
For  not  an  eye  the  storm  that  viewed 
Changed  its  proud  glance  of  fortitude, 
Nor  was  one  forward  footstep  staid, 
As  dropped  the  dying  and  the  dead. 
Fast  as  their  ranks  the  thunders  tear, 
Fast  they  renewed  each  serried  square  ; 
And  on  the  wounded  and  the  slain 
Closed  their  diminished  files  again, 
Till  from  their  line  scarce  spears'  lengths 

three 
Emerging  from  the  smoke  they  see 
Helmet  and  plume  and  panoply  — 

Then  waked  their  fire  at  once  ! 
Each  musketeer's  revolving  knell, 
As  fast,  as  regularly  fell, 
As  when  they  practise  to  display 
Their  discipline  on  festal  day. 

Then  down  went  helm  and  lance, 
Down  were  the  eagle  banners  sent, 
Down  reeling  steeds  and  riders  went, 


THE  FIELD   OF   WATERLOO. 


427 


Corselets  were  pierced  and  pennons  rent; 

And  to  augment  the  fray, 
Wheeled  full  against  their  staggering  flanks, 
The  English  horsemen's  foaming  ranks 

Forced  their  resistless  way. 
Then  to  the  musket-knell  succeeds 
The  clash  of  swords,  the  neigh  of  steeds, 
As  plies  the  smith  his  clanging  trade, 
Against  the  cuirass  rang  the  blade  ; 
And  while  amid  their  close  array 
The  well-served  cannon  rent  their  way, 
And  while  amid  their  scattered  band 
Raged  the  fierce  rider's  bloody  brand, 
Recoiled  in  common  rout  and  fear 
Lancer  and  guard  and  cuirassier, 
Horsemen  and  foot,  —  a  mingled  host. 
Their  leaders  fallen,  their  standards  lost. 


XIII. 

Then,  Wellington  !  thy  piercing  eye 
This  crisis  caught  of  destiny  — 

The  British  host  had  stood 
That  morn  'gainst  charge   of    sword   and 

lance 
As  their  own  ocean-rocks  hold  stance, 
But  when  thy  voice  had  said,  *  Advance  ! ' 

They  were  their  ocean's  flood.  — 
O  thou  whose  inauspicious  aim 
Hath    wrought     thy    host     this    hour    of 

shame, 
Think'st  thou  thy  broken  bands  will  bide 
The  terrors  of  yon  rushing  tide  ? 
Or  will  thy  chosen  brook  to  feel 
The  British  shock  of  levelled  steel  ? 

Or  dost  thou  turn  thine  eye 
Where  coming  squadrons  gleam  afar, 
And  fresher  thunders  wake  the  war, 

And  other  standards  fly  ?  — 
Think  not  that  in  yon  columns  file 
Thy  conquering  troops  from  distant  Dyle  — 

Is  Blucher  yet  unknown? 
Or  dwells  not  in  thy  memory  still, 
Heard  frequent  in  thine  hour  of  ill, 
What  notes  of  hate  and  vengeance  thrill 

In  Prussia's  trumpet  tone?  — 
What  yet  remains  ?  —  shall  it  be  thine 
To  head  the  relics  of  thy  line 

In  one  dread  effort  more  ?  — 
The  Roman  lore  thy  leisure  loved, 
And  thou  canst  tell  what  fortune  proved 

That  chieftain  who  of  yore 
Ambition's  dizzy  paths  essayed, 
And  with  the  gladiators'  aid 
For  empire  enterprised  — 
He  stood  the  cast  his  rashness  played, 
Left  not  the  victims  he  had  made, 
Dug  his  red  grave  with  his  own  blade, 
And  on  the  field  he  lost  was  laid, 
Abhorred  —  but  not  despised. 


xiv. 

But  if  revolves  thy  fainter  thought 
On  safety  —  howsoever  bought  — 
Then  turn  thy  fearful  rein  and  ride, 
Though  twice  ten  thousand  men  have  died 

On  this  eventful  day, 
To  gild  the  military  fame 
Which  thou  for  life  in  traffic  tame 

Wilt  barter  thus  away. 
Shall  future  ages  tell  this  tale 
Of  inconsistence  faint  and  frail  ? 
And  art  thou  he  of  Lodi's  bridge, 
Marengo's  field,  and  Wagram's  ridge  ! 

Or  is  thy  soul  like  mountain-tide 
That,  swelled  by  winter  storm  and  shower, 
Rolls  down  in  turbulence  of  power 

A  torrent  fierce  and  wide ; 
Reft  of  these  aids,  a  rill  obscure, 
Shrinking  unnoticed,  mean  and  poor, 

Whose  channel  shows  displayed 
The  wrecks  of  its  impetuous  course, 
But  not  one  symptom  of  the  force 

By  which  these  wrecks  were  made ! 

xv. 

Spur  on  thy  way  !  —  since  now  thine  ear 
Has  brooked  thy  veterans'  wish  to  hear, 

Who  as  thy  flight  they  eyed 
Exclaimed  —  while  tears  of  anguish  came. 
Wrung  forth  by  pride  and  rage  and  shame  — 

'  O,  that  he  had  but  died ! ' 
But  yet,  to  sum  this  hour  of  ill, 
Look  ere  thou  leavest  the  fatal  hill 

Back  on  yon  broken  ranks  — 
Upon  whose  wild  confusion  gleams 
The  moon,  as  on  the  troubled  streams 

When  rivers  break  their  banks, 
And  to  the  ruined  peasant's  eye 
Objects  half  seen  roll  swiftly  by, 

Down  the  dread  current  hurled  — 
So  mingle  banner,  wain,  and  gun, 
Where  the  tumultuous  flight  rolls  on 
Of  warriors  who  when  morn  begun 

Defied  a  banded  world. 

XVI. 

List  —  frequent  to  the  hurrying  rout, 
The  stern  pursuers'  vengeful  shout 
Tells  that  upon  their  broken  rear 
Rages  the  Prussian's  bloody  spear. 

So  fell  a  shriek  was  none 
When  Beresina's  icy  flood 
Reddened  and  thawed  with  flame  and  blood 
And,  pressing  on  thy  desperate  way, 
Raised  oft  and  long  their  wild  hurra 

The  children  of  the  Don. 
Thine  ear  no  yell  of  horror  cleft 
So  ominous  when,  all  bereft 
Of  aid,  the  valiant  Polack  left  — 


428 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL    WORKS. 


Ay,  left  by  thee  —found  soldier's  grave 
In  Leipsic's  corpse-encumbered  wave. 
Fate,  in  these  various  perils  past, 
Reserved  thee  still  some  future  cast ; 
On  the  dread  die  thou  now  hast  thrown 
Hangs  not  a  single  field  alone, 
Nor  one  campaign  —  thy  martial  fame, 
Thy  empire,  dynasty,  and  name, 

Have  felt  the  final  stroke  ; 
And  now  o'er  thy  devoted  head 
The  last  stern  vial's  wrath  is  shed, 

The  last  dread  seal  is  broke. 

XVII. 

Since  live  thou  wilt  —  refuse  not  now 
Before  these  demagogues  to  bow, 
Late  objects  of  thy  scorn  and  hate, 
Who  shall  thy  once  imperial  fate 
.Make  wordy  theme  of  vain  debate. — 
Or  shall  we  say  thou  stoop'st  less  low 
In  seeking  refuge  from  the  foe, 
Against  whose  heart  in  prosperous  life 
Thine  hand  hath  ever  held  the  knife? 

Such  homage  hath  been  paid 
By  Roman  and  by  Grecian  voice, 
And  there  were  honor  in  the  choice, 

If  it  were  freely  made. 
Then  safely  come  —  in  one  so  low,  — 
So  lost,  —  we  cannot  own  a  foe  ; 
Though  dear  experience  bid  us  end, 
In  thee  we  ne'er  can  hail  a  friend. — 
Come,  howsoe'er  —  but  do  not  hide 
Close  in  thy  heart  that  germ  of  pride 
Erewhile  by  gifted  bard  espied, 

That  'yet  imperial  hope  ; ' 
Think  not  that  for  a  fresh  rebound, 
To  raise  ambition  from  the  ground, 

We  yield  thee  means  or  scope. 
In  safety  come — but  ne'er  again 
Hold  type  of  independent  reign ; 

No  islet  calls  thee  lord, 
We  leave  thee  no  confederate  band, 
No  symbol  of  thy  lost  command, 
To  be  a  dagger  in  the  hand 

From  which  we  wrenched  the  sword. 

XVIII. 

Yet,  even  in  yon  sequestered  spot, 
May  worthier  conquest  be  thy  lot 

Than  yet  thy  life  has  known; 
Conquest  unbought  by  blood  or  harm, 
That  needs  nor  foreign  aid  nor  arm, 

A  triumph  all  thine  own. 
Such  waits  thee  when  thou  shalt  control 
Those  passions  wild,  that  stubborn  soul, 

That  marred  thy  prosperous  scene:  — 
Hear  this  —  from  no  unmoved  heart, 
Which  sighs,  comparing  what  thou  art 

With  what  tlimi  MIGHTST  have  BEEN! 


XIX. 

Thou  too,  whose  deeds  of  fame  renewed 

Bankrupt  a  nation's  gratitude, 

To  thine  own  noble  heart  must  owe 

More  than  the  meed  she  can  bestow. 

For  not  a  people's  just  acclaim, 

Not  the  full  hail  of  Europe's  fame, 

Thy  prince's  smiles,  thy  state's  decree, 

The  ducal  rank,  the  gartered  knee, 

Not  these  such  pure  delight  afford 

As  that,  when  hanging  up  thy  sword, 

Well  mayst  thou  think,  '  This  honest  steel 

Was  ever  drawn  for  public  weal ; 

And,  such  was  rightful  Heaven's  decree, 

Ne'er  sheathed  unless  with  victory ! ' 

xx. 

Look  forth  once  more  with  softened  heart 
Ere  from  the  field  of  fame  we  part ; 
Triumph  and  sorrow  border  near, 
And  joy  oft  melts  into  a  tear. 
Alas  !  what  links  of  love  that  morn 
Has  War's  rude  hand  asunder  torn ! 
For  ne'er  was  field  so  sternly  fought, 
And  ne'er  was  conquest  dearer  bought. 
Here  piled  in  common  slaughter  sleep 
Those  whom  affection  long  shall  weep : 
Here  rests  the  sire  that  ne'er  shall  strain 
His  orphans  to  his  heart  again ; 
The  son  whom  on  his  native  shore 
The  parent's  voice  shall  bless  no  more ; 
The  bridegroom  who  has  hardly  pressed 
His  blushing  consort  to  his  breast : 
The  husband  whom  through  many  a  year 
Long  love  and  mutual  faith  endear. 
Thou  canst  not  name  one  tender  tie 
But  here  dissolved  its  relics  lie  ! 
O,  when  thou  see'st  some  mourner's  veil 
Shroud  her  thin  form  and  visage  pale, 
Or  mark'st  the  matron's  bursting  tears 
Stream  when  the  stricken  drum  she  hears, 
Or  see'st  how  manlier  grief  suppressed 
Is  laboring  in  a  father's  breast,  — 
With  no  inquiry  vain  pursue 
The  cause,  but  think  on  Waterloo  ! 

xxi. 
Period  of  honor  as  of  woes, 
What  bright  careers  't  was  thine  to  close  !  — 
Marked  on  thy  roll  of  blood  what  names 
To  Briton's  memory  and  to  Fame's 
Laid  there  their  last  immortal  claims  ! 
Thou  saw'st  in  seas  of  gore  expire 
Redoubted  Picton's  soul  of  fire  — 
Saw'st  in  the  mingled  carnage  lie 
All  that  of  Ponsonby  could  die  — 
De  Lancey  change  Love's  bridal-wreath 
For  laurels  from  the  hand  of  Death  — 
Saw'st  gallant  Miller's  failing  eye 
Still  bent  where  Albion's  banners  fly, 


THE  FIELD    OF   WATERLOO. 


429 


And  Cameron  in  the  shock  of  steel 
Die  like  the  offspring  of  Lochiel ; 
And  generous  Gordon  mid  the  strife 
Fall  while  he  watched  his  leader's  life.  — ' 
Ah  !  though  her  guardian  angel's  shield 
Fenced  Britain's  hero  through  the  field, 
Fate  not  the  less  her  power  made  known 
Through  his  friends'  hearts  to  pierce  his 
own! 

XXII. 

Forgive,  brave  dead,  the  imperfect  lay ! 
Who  may  your  names,  your  numbers,  say? 
What  high-strung  harp,  what  lofty  line, 
To  each  the  dear-earned  praise  assign, 
From  high-born  chiefs  of  martial  fame 
To  the  poor  soldier's  lowlier  name  ? 
Lightly  ye  rose  that  dawning  day 


From  your  cold  couch  of  swamp  and  clay, 
To  fill  before  the  sun  was  low 
The  bed  that  morning  cannot  know.  — 
Oft  may  the  tear  the  green  sod  steep, 
And  sacred  be  the  heroes'  sleep 

Till  time  shall  cease  to  run ; 
And  ne'er  beside  their  noble  grave 
May  Briton  pass  and  fail  to  crave 
A  blessing  on  the  fallen  brave 

Who  fought  with  Wellington  ! 

XXIII. 

Farewell,  sad  field  !  whose  blighted  face 
Wears  desolation's  withering  trace ; 
Long  shall  my  memory  retain 
Thy  shattered  huts  and  trampled  grain, 
With  every  mark  of  martial  wrong 


430 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL    WORKS. 


That  scathe  thy  towers,  fair  Hougomont ! 
Yet  though  thy  garden's  green  arcade 
The  marksman's  fatal  post  was  made, 
Though  on  thy  shattered  beeches  fell 
The  blended  rage  of  shot  and  shell, 
Though  from  thy  blackened  portals  torn 
Their  fall  thy  blighted  fruit-trees  mourn, 
Has  not  such  havoc  bought  a  name 


Immortal  in  the  rolls  of  fame? 
Yes  —  Agincourt  may  be  forgot, 
And  Cressy  be  an  unknown  spot, 

And  Blenheim's  name  be  new  ; 
But  still  in  story  and  in  song, 
For  many  an  age  remembered  long, 
Shall  live  the  towers  of  Hougomont 

And  Field  of  Waterloo. 


Cjje  jftelo  of  Waterloo. 

CONCLUSION. 

Stern  tide  of  human  time !  that  know'st  not  rest, 
But,  sweeping  from  the  cradle  to  the  tomb, 
Bear'st  ever  downward  on  thy  dusky  breast 
Successive  generations  to  their  doom  ; 
While  thy  capacious  stream  has  equal  room 
For  the  gay  bark  where  Pleasure's  streamers  sport 
And  for  the  prison-ship  of  guilt  and  gloom, 
The  fisher-skiff  and  barge  that  bears  a  court, 
Still  wafting  onward  all  to  one  dark  silent  port ;  — 

Stern  tide  of  time  !  through  what  mysterious  change 
Of  hope  and  fear  have  our  frail  barks  been  driven ! 
For  ne'er  before  vicissitude  so  strange 
Was  to  one  race  of  Adam's  offspring  given. 
And  sure  such  varied  change  of  sea  and  heaven, 
Such  unexpected  bursts  of  joy  and  woe, 
Such  fearful  strife  as  that  where  we  have  striven, 
Succeeding  ages  ne'er  again  shall  know 
Until  the  awful  term  when  thou  shalt  cease  to  flow. 

Well  hast  thou  stood,  my  Country  !  —  the  brave  fight 
Hast  well  maintained  through  good  report  and  ill  : 
In  thy  just  cause  and  in  thy  native  might, 
And  m  Heaven's  grace  and  justice  constant  still ; 
Whether  the  banded  prowess,  strength,  and  skill 
Of  half  the  world  against  thee  stood  arrayed, 
Or  when  with  better  views  and  freer  will 
Beside  thee  Europe's  noblest  drew  the  blade, 
Each  emulous  in  arms  the  Ocean  Queen  to  aid. 


Well  art  thou  now  repaid  —  though  slowly  rose 

«?i_d.iSt!?Jgglied  long  with  mists  thy  blaze  of  fame, 
While  like  the  dawn  that  in  the  orient  glows 
On  the  broad  wave  its  earlier  lustre  came  ; 

Thjn^a.s!ern  ESYPt  saw  the  growing  flame, 
And  Maida's  myrtles  gleamed  beneath  its  ray, 
Sl^  *e  soldier  stung  with  generous  shame, 
Rivalled  the  heroes  of  the  watery  way, 
And  washed  in  foemen's  gore  unjust  reproach  away. 


THE  FIELD    OF   WATERLOO. 


431 


Now,  Island  Empress,  wave  thy  crest  on  high, 
And  bid  the  banner  of  thy  Patron  flow, 
Gallant  Saint  George,  the  flower  of  chivalry, 

•   For  thou  hast  faced  like  him  a  dragon  foe, 
And  rescued  innocence  from  overthrow, 
And  trampled  down  like  him  tyrannic  might, 
And  to  the  gazing  world  mayst  proudly  show 
The  chosen  emblem  of  thy  sainted  knight, 

Who  quelled  devouring  pride  and  vindicated  right. 


Yet  mid  the  confidence  of  just  renown, 
Renown  dear-bought,  but  dearest  thus  acquired, 
Write,  Britain,  write  the  moral  lesson  down  : 
'T  is  not  alone  the  heart  with  valor  fired, 
The  discipline  so  dreaded  and  admired, 
In  many  a  field  of  bloody  conquest  known ;  — 
Such  may  by  fame  be  lured,  by  gold  be  hired  — 
'T  is  constancy  in  the  good  cause  alone 
Best  justifies  the  meed  thy  valiant  sons  have  won. 


xsfya  j>ma$$xi€$$ 


Varolii  tf)e  Bauntless: 


A   POEM    IN    SIX    CANTOS. 


J^arolti  tijB  ©auntlegg. 


INTRODUCTION. 

There  is  a  mood  of  mind  we  all  have  known 
On  drowsy  eve  or  dark  and  lowering  day, 
When  the  tired  spirits  lose  their  sprightly  tone 
And  naught  can  chase  the  lingering  hours  away. 
Dull  on  our  soul  falls  Fancy's  dazzling  ray, 
And  Wisdom  holds  his  steadier  torch  in  vain, 
Obscured  the  painting  seems,  mistuned  the  lay, 
Nor  dare  we  of  our  listless  load  complain, 
For  who  for  sympathy  may  seek  that  cannot  tell  of  pain  ? 

The  jolly  sportsman  knows  such  drearihood 
When  bursts  in  deluge  the  autumnal  rain, 
Clouding  that  morn  which  threats  the  heath-cock's  brood 
Of  such  in  summer's  drought  the  anglers  plain, 
Who  hope  the  soft  mild  southern  shower  in  vain : 
But  more  than  all  the  discontented  fair, 
Whom  father  stern  and  sterner  aunt  restrain 
From  county-ball  or  race  occurring  rare, 
While  all  her  friends  around  their  vestments  gay  prepare. 

Ennui !  —  or,  as  our  mothers  called  thee,  Spleen  ! 
To  thee  we  owe  full  many  a  rare  device  ;  — 
Thine  is  the  sheaf  of  painted  cards,  I  ween, 
The  rolling  billiard-ball,  the  rattling  dice, 
The  turning-lathe  for  framing  gimcrack  nice  ; 
The  amateur's  blotched  pallet  thou  mayst  claim, 
Retort,  and  air-pump,  threatening  frogs  and  mice  — 
Murders  disguised  by  philosophic  name  — 
And  much  of  trifling  grave  and  much  of  buxom  game. 

Then  of  the  books  to  catch  thy  drowsy  glance 
Compiled,  what  bard  the  catalogue  may  quote  ! 
Plays,  poems,  novels,  never  read  but  once  ;  — 
But  not  of  such  the  tale  fair  Edgeworth  wrote, 
That  bears  thy  name  and  is  thine  antidote  ; 
And  not  of  such  the  strain  my  Thomson  sung, 
Delicious  dreams  inspiring  by  his  note, 
What  time  to  Indolence  his  harp  he  strung;  — 
O,  might  my  lay  be  ranked  that  happier  list  among ! 


436 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL   WORKS. 


Each  hath  his  refuge  whom  thy  cares  assail. 
For  me,  I  love  my  study-fire  to  trim, 
And  con  right  vacantly  some  idle  tale, 
Displaying  on  the  couch  each  listless  limb, 
Till  on  the  drowsy  page  the  lights  grow  dim 
And  doubtful  slumber  half  supplies  the  theme  ; 
While  antique  shapes  of  knight  and  giant  grim, 
Damsel  and  dwarf,  in  long  procession  gleam, 
And  the  romancer's  tale  becomes  the  reader's  dream. 

'T  is  thus  my  malady  I  well  may  bear, 
Albeit  outstretched,  like  Pope's  own  Paridel, 
Upon  the  rack  of  a  too-easy  chair ; 
And  find  to  cheat  the  time  a  powerful  spell 
In  old  romaunts  of  errantry  that  tell. 
Or  later  legends  of  the  Fairy-folk, 
Or  Oriental  tale  of  Afrite  fell, 
Of  Genii,. Talisman,  and  broad-winged  Roc, 
Though  taste  may  blush  and  frown,  and  sober  reason  mock. 

Oft  at  such  season  too  will  rhymes  unsought 
Arrange  themselves  in  some  romantic  lay, 
The  which,  as  things  unfitting  graver  thought, 
Are  burnt  or  blotted  on  some  wiser  day.  — 
These  few  survive  —  and,  proudly  let  me  say, 
Court  not  the  critic's  smile  nor  dread  his  frown; 
They  well  may  serve  to  while  an  hour  away, 
Nor  does  the  volume  ask  for  more  renown 
Than  Ennui's  yawning  smile,  what  time  she  drops  it  down. 


Varolii  tfje  Bauntiess. 

CANTO   FIRST. 

I. 
List  to  the  valorous  deeds  that  were  done 
By  Harold  the  Dauntless,  Count  Witikind's 


Count  Witikind  came  of  a  regal  strain, 
And  roved  with  his  Norsemen  the  land  and 

the  main. 
Woe  to  the  realms  which  he  coasted  !  for 

there 
Was  shedding  of  blood  and  rending  of  hair, 
Rape  of  maiden  and  slaughter  of  priest, 
Gathering  of  ravens  and  wolves  to  the  feast : 
When  he  hoisted  his  standard  black, 

him  was  battle,  behind  him  wrack, 
And  he  burned  the  churches,  that  heathen 

Dane, 
To  light  his  band  to  their  barks  again. 


On  Erin's  shores  was  his  outrage  known, 
The  winds  of  France  had  his  banners  blown 


Little  was  there  to  plunder,  yet  still 
His  pirates  had  forayed  on  Scottish  hill : 
But  upon  merry  England's  coast 
More  frequent  he  sailed,  for  he  won  the 

most. 
So  wide  and  so  far  his  ravage  they  knew, 
If  a  sail  but  gleamed  white  'gainst  the  wel- 
kin blue, 
Trumpet  and  bugle  to  arms  did  call, 
Burghers  hastened  to  man  the  wall, 
Peasants  fled  inland  his  fury  to  'scape, 
Beacons  were  lighted  on  headland  and  cape. 
Bells  were  tolled  out,  and  aye  as  they  rung 
Fearful  and  faintly  the  gray  brothers  sung, 
'  Bless  us,  Saint  Mary,  from  flood  and  from 

fire, 
From  famine  and  pest,  and  Count  Witi- 
kind's ire ! ' 

in. 
He  liked  the  wealth  of  fair  England  so  well 
That  he  sought  in  her  bosom  as  native  to 

dwell. 
He  entered  the  Humber  in  fearful  hour 
And  disembarked  with  his  Danish  power. 
Three  earls  came  against  him  with  all  their 

train,  — 


HAROLD    THE  DAUNTLESS. 


437 


Two  hath  he  taken  and  one  hath  he  slain. 

Count  Witikind  left  the  Humber's  rich 
strand, 

And  he  wasted  and  warred  in  Northumber- 
land. 

But  the  Saxon  king  was  a  sire  in  age, 

Weak  in  battle,  in  council  sage ; 

Peace  of  that  heathen  leader  he  sought, 

Gifts  he  gave  and  quiet  he  bought ; 

And  the  count  took  upon  him  the  peace- 
able style 

Of  a  vassal  and  liegeman  of  Briton's  broad 
isle. 

IV. 

Time  will  rust  the  sharpest  sword, 

Time  will  consume  the  strongest  cord  ; 

That  which  moulders  hemp  and  steel 

Mortal  arm  and  nerve  must  feel. 

Of  the  Danish  band  whom  Count  Witikind 
led 

Many  waxed  aged  and  many  were  dead : 

Himself  found  his  armor  full  Weighty  to 
bear, 

Wrinkled  his  brows  grew  and  hoary  his 
hair; 

He  leaned  on  a  staff  when  his  step  went 
abroad, 

And  patient  his  palfrey  when  steed  he  be- 
strode. 

As  he  grew  feebler,  his  wildness  ceased, 


He  made  himself  peace  with  prelate  and 

priest, 
Made  his  peace,  and  stooping  his  head 
Patiently  listed  the  counsel  they  said  : 
Saint  Cuthbert's  Bishop  was  holy  and  grave, 
Wise  and  good  was  the  counsel  he  gave. 

v. 
'  Thou  hast  murdered,  robbed,  and  spoiled, 
Time  it  is  thy  poor  soul  were  assoiled; 
Priests  didst  thou  slay  and  churches  burn, 
Time  it  is  now  to  repentance  to  turn ; 
Fiends  hast  thou  worshipped  with  fiendish 

rite, 
Leave   now  the   darkness  and  wend   into 

light : 
O,  while  life  and  space  are  given, 
Turn  thee  yet,  and  think  of  Heaven  ! ' 
That  stern  old  heathen  his  head  he  raised, 
And   on  the  good   prelate   he   steadfastly 

gazed ; 
1  Give  me  broad  lands  on  the  Wear  and  the 

Tyne, 
My  faith  I  will  leave  and  I  '11  cleave  unto 

thine.' 

VI. 

Broad  lands   he  gave  him   on   Tyne  and 

Wear, 
To  be  held  of  the  church  by  bridle  and 

spear, 


438 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL    WORKS. 


Part  of  Monkwearmouth,  of  Tynedale  part, 
To  better  his  will  and  to  soften  his  heart : 
Count  Witikind  was  a  joyful  man, 
Less  for  the  faith  than  the  lands  that  he 

wan. 
The  high  church  of  Durham  is  dressed  for 

the  day, 
The  clergy  are  ranked  in  their  solemn  ar- 
ray: 
There  came  the  count,  in  a  bear-skin  warm, 
Leaning  on  Hilda  his  concubine's  arm. 
He  kneeled  before  Saint  Cuthbert's  shrine 
With  patience  unwonted  at  rites  divine  ; 
He  abjured  the  gods  of  heathen  race 
And  he  bent  his  head  at  the  font  of  grace. 
But  such  was  the  grisly  old  proselyte's  look, 
That  the  priest  who  baptized  him  grew  pale 

and  shook ; 
And  the  old  monks  muttered  beneath  their 

hood, 
1  Of  a  stem  so  stubborn  can  never  spring 
good ! ' 

VII. 

Up  then  arose  that  grim  convertite, 
Homeward  he  hied  him  when  ended  the 

rite ; 
The  prelate  in  honor  will  with  him  ride 
And  feast  in  his  castle  on  Tyne's  fair  side. 
Banners  and  banderols  danced  in  the  wind, 
Monks  rode   before   them  and  spearmen 

behind ; 
Onward  they  passed,  till  fairly  did  shine 
Pennon  and  cross  on  the  bosom  of  Tyne  ; 
And  full  in  front  did  that  fortress  lour 
In  darksome  strength  with  its  buttress  and 

tower : 
At  the  castle  gate  was  young  Harold  there, 
Count  Witikind's  only  offspring  and  heir. 

VIII. 

Young  Harold  was  feared  for  his  hardihood, 

His  strength  of  frame  and  his  fury  of  mood. 

Rude  he  was  and  wild  to  behold, 

Wore  neither  collar  nor  bracelet  of  gold, 

Cap  of  vair  nor  rich  array, 

Such  as  should  grace  that  festal  day  : 

His  doublet  of  bull's  hide  was  all  unbraced, 

Uncovered  his  head  and  his  sandal  unlaced : 

His  shaggy  black  locks  on  his  brow  hung 

low, 
And    his    eyes   glanced   through    them   a 

swarthy  glow; 
A  Danish  club  in  his  hand  he  bore, 
The  spikes  were  clotted  with  recent  gore; 
At  his  back  a  she-wolf  and  her  wolf-cubs 

twain, 
In  the  dangerous  chase  that  morning  slain. 
Rude  was  the  greeting  his  father  he  made, 
None  to  the  bishop,  —  while  thus  he  said:  — 


IX. 

'What  priest-led  hypocrite  art  thou 

With  thy  humbled  look  and  thy  monkish 

brow, 
Like  a  shaveling  who  studies  to  cheat  his 

vow? 
Canst  thou  be  Witikind  the  Waster  known. 
Royal  Eric's  fearless  son, 
Haughty  Gunhilda's  haughtier  lord, 
Who  won  his  bride  by  the  axe  and  sword ; 
From  the  shrine  of  Saint  Peter  the  chalice 

who  tore, 
And  melted  to  bracelets  for  Freya  and  Thor ; 
With  one  blow  of  his  gauntlet  who  burst 

the  skull, 
Before  Odin's  stone,  of  the  Mountain  Bull  ? 
Then  ye  worshipped  with  rites  that  to  war- 
gods  belong, 
With  the  deed  of  the  brave  and  the  blow 

of  the  strong ; 
And  now,  in  thine  age  to  dotage  sunk, 
Wilt  thou  patter  thy  crimes  to  a  shaven 

monk, 
Lay  down   thy  mail-shirt  for  clothing  of 

hair,  — 
Fasting  and  scourge,  like  a  slave,  wilt  thou 

bear? 
Or,  at  best,  be  admitted  in  slothful  bower 
To  batten  with  priest  and  with  paramour? 
O,  out  upon  thine  endless  shame ! 
Each  Scald's  high  harp  shall  blast  thy  fame, 
And  thy  son  will  refuse  thee  a  father's 

name ! ' 


Ireful  waxed  old  Witikind's  look, 
His  faltering  voice  with  fury  shook :  — 
;  Hear  me,  Harold  of  hardened  heart ! 
Stubborn  and  wilful  ever  thou  wert. 
Thine  outrage  insane  I  command  thee  to 

cease, 
Fear  my  wrath  and  remain  at  peace  :  — 
Just  is  the  debt  of  repentance  I  've  paid, 
Richly  the  church  has  a  recompense  made, 
And  the  truth  of  her  doctrines  I  prove  with 

my  blade, 
But  reckoning  to  none  of  my  actions  I  owe, 
And  least  to  my  son  such  accounting  will 

show. 
Why  speak  I  to  thee  of  repentance  or  truth, 
Who  ne'er  from  thy  childhood  knew  reason 

or  ruth  ? 
Hence  !  to  the  wolf  and  the  bear  in  her  den  : 
These  are  thy  mates,  and  not  rational  men.* 


XI. 

Grimly  smiled  Harold  and  coldly  replied, 
4  We  must  honor  our  sires,  if  we  fear  when 
they  chide. 


HAROLD    THE  DAUNTLESS. 


439 


For  me,  I  am  yet  what  thy  lessons  have 

made, 
I  was  rocked  in  a  buckler  and  fed  from  a 

blade ; 
An  infant,  was  taught  to  clasp  hands  and 

to  shout 
From  the  roofs  of  the  tower  when  the  flame 

had  broke  out ; 
In  the  blood  of  slain  foemen  my  finger  to  dip, 
And  tinge  with  its  purple  my  Cheek  and  my 

lip-  — 

Tis  thou  know'st  not  truth,  that  hast  bar- 
tered in  eld 

For  a  price  the  brave  faith  that  thine  an- 
cestors held. 

When  this  wolf '  —  and  the  carcass  he  flung 
on  the  plain  — 

'  Shall  awake  and  give  food  to  her  nurslings 
again, 

The  face  of  his  father  will  Harold  review ; 

Till  then,  aged  heathen,  young  Christian, 
adieu ! ' 

XII. 

Priest,  monk,  and  prelate  stood  aghast, 
As  through  the  pageant  the  heathen  passed. 
A  cross-bearer  out  of  his  saddle  he  flung, 
Laid  his  hand  on  the  pommel  and  into  it 

sprung. 
Loud  was  the  shriek  and  deep  the  groan 
When    the    holy   sign  on    the   earth   was 

thrown ! 
The  fierce  old  count  unsheathed  his  brand, 
But  the  calmer  prelate  stayed  his  hand. 
'  Let  him  pass  free  !  —  Heaven  knows  its 

hour,  — 
But  he  must  own  repentance's  power, 
Pray  and  weep,  and  penance  bear, 
Ere  he  hold   land  by  the   Tyne  and  the 

Wear.' 
Thus  in  scorn  and  in  wrath  from  his  father 

is  gone 
Young  Harold  the  Dauntless,  Count  Witi- 

kind's  son. 

XIII. 

High  was  the  feasting  in  Witikind's  hall, 
Revelled  priests,  soldiers,  and  pagans,  and 

all; 
And  e'en  the  good  bishop  was  fain  to  endure 
The  scandal  which   time  and   instruction 

might  cure  : 
It  were  dangerous,  he  deemed,  at  the  first 

to  restrain 
In  his  wine  and  his  wassail  a  half -christened 

Dane. 
The  mead  flowed  around  and  the  ale  was 

drained  dry, 
Wild  was  the  laughter,  the  song,  and  the 

cry ; 


With  Kyrie  Eleison  came  clamorously  in 
The  war-songs  of  Danesmen,  Norweyan, 

and  Finn, 
Till  man  after  man  the  contention  gave  o'er, 
Outstretched  on  the  rushes  that  strewed 

the  hall  floor; 
And  the  tempest  within,  having  ceased  its 

wild  rout, 
Gave  place  to  the  tempest  that  thundered 

without. 


Apart  from  the  wassail  in  turret  alone 
Lay  flaxen-haired  Gunnar,  old  Ermengarde's 

son ; 
In  the  train  of  Lord  Harold  that  page  was 

the  first, 
For  Harold  in  childhood  had  Ermengarde 

nursed ; 
And  grieved  was  young  Gunnar  his  master 

should  roam, 
Unhoused  and  unfriended,  an  exile  from 

home. 
He  heard  the  deep  thunder,  the  plashing  of 

rain, 
He  saw  the  red  lightning  through  shot-hole 

and  pane  ; 
1  And  O  ! '  said  the  page, '  on  the  shelterless 

wold 
Lord  Harold  is  wandering  in  darkness  and 

cold ! 
What  though  he  was  stubborn  and  wayward 

and  wild, 
He   endured   me  because   I   was    Ermen- 
garde's child, 
And  often  from  dawn  till  the  set  of  the  sun 
In  the  chase  by  his  stirrup  unbidden  I  run  ; 
I  would  I  were  older,  and  knighthood  could 

bear, 
I  would  soon  quit  the  banks  of  the  Tyne 

and  the  Wear : 
For  my  mother's  command  with  her  last 

parting  breath 
Bade  me  follow  her  nursling  in  life  and  to 

death. 

xv. 

1  It  pours  and  it  thunders,  it  lightens  amain, 

As  if  Lok  the  Destroyer  had  burst  from 
his  chain ! 

Accursed  by  the  church  and  expelled  by      * 
his  sire, 

Nor  Christian  nor  Dane  give  him  shelter 
or  fire, 

And  this  tempest  what  mortal  may  house- 
less endure? 

Unaided,  unmantled,  he  dies  on  the  moor ! 

Whate'er  comes  of  Gunnar,  he  tarries  not 
here.' 

He  leapt  from  his  couch  and  he  grasped  to 
his  spear, 


440 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL   WORKS. 


Sought  the  hall  of  the  feast.     Undisturbed 

by  his  tread, 
The  wassailers  slept  fast  as  the  sleep  of 

the  dead : 

•  Ungrateful  and  bestial!'  his  anger  broke 

forth, 

*  To  forget  mid  your  goblets  the  pride  of 

the  North  ! 
And  you,  ye  cowled  priests  who  have  plenty 

in  store, 
.Must  give  Gunnarfor  ransom  a  palfrey  and 

ore.' 

XVI. 

Then,  heeding  full  little  of  ban  or  of  curse, 
He  has  seized  on  the  Prior  of  Jorvaux's 

purse : 
Saint  Meneholt's  Abbot  next  morning  has 

missed 
His  mantle,  deep  furred  from  the  cape  to 

the  wrist : 
The  seneschal's  keys  from  his  belt  he  has 

ta'en  — 
Well  drenched  on  that  eve  was  old  Hilde- 

brand's  brain  — 
To  the  stable-yard  he  made  his  way 
And  mounted  the  bishop's  palfrey  gay, 
Castle  and  hamlet  behind  him  has  cast 
And  right  on  his  way  to  the  moorland  has 

passed. 
Sore  snorted  the  palfrey,  unused  to  face 
A  weather  so  wild  at  so  rash  a  pace  ; 
So  long  he  snorted,  so  long  he  neighed, 
There  answered  a  steed  that  was  bound 

beside. 
And  the  red  flash  of  lightning  showed  there 

where  lay 
His  master,  Lord  Harold,  outstretched  on 

the  clay. 

XVII. 

Up  he  started  and  thundered  out,  '  Stand  ! ' 
And  raised  the  club  in  his  deadly  hand. 
The  flaxen-haired  Gunnar  his  purpose  told, 
Showed  the  palfrey  and  proffered  the  gold. 
•  Hack,  back,  and  home,  thou  simple  boy  ! 
Thou  canst  not  share  my  grief  or  joy  : 
I  lave  I  not  marked  thee  wail  and  cry 
When  thou  hast  seen  a  sparrow  die  ? 
And  canst  thou,  as  my  follower  should, 
Wade  ankle-deep  through  foeman's  blood, 
Dare  mortal  and  immortal  foe, 
The  gods  above,  the  fiends  below, 
And  man  on  earth,  more  hateful  still, 
The  very  fountain-head  of  ill? 
Desperate  of  life  and  careless  of  death, 
Lover  of    bloodshed    and    slaughter  and 

scathe. 
Such  must  thou  be  with  me  to  roam, 
And  such  thou  canst  not  be  —  back,  and 

home  !  ' 


XVIII. 

Young  Gunnar  shook  like  an  aspen  bough, 
As  he  heard  the  harsh  voice  and  beheld 

the  dark  brow, 
And  half  he  repented  his  purpose  and  vow. 
But  now  to  draw  back  were  bootless  shame, 
And  he   loved   his   master,  so  urged  his 

claim : 
;  Alas  !  if  my  arm  and  my  courage  be  weak, 
Bear  with  me  awhile  iFor  old  Ermengarde's 

sake  ; 
Nor  deem  so  lightly  of  Gunnar's  faith 
As  to  fear  he  would  break  it  for  peril  of 

death. 
Have  I  not  risked  it  to  fetch  thee  this  gold, 
This  surcoat  and  mantle  to  fence  thee  from 

cold? 
And,  did  I  bear  a  baser  mind, 
What  lot  remains  if  I  stay  behind  ? 
The  priests'  revenge,  thy  father's  wrath, 
A  dungeon,  and  a  shameful  death.' 


With  gentler  look  Lord  Harold  eyed 
The  page,  then  turned  his  head  aside  ; 
And  either  a  tear  did  his  eyelash  stain, 
Or  it  caught  a  drop  of  the  passing  rain. 
'Art  thou  an  outcast,  then  ?  '  quoth  he  ; 
'  The  meeter  page  to  follow  me.' 
'Twere  bootless  to  tell  what  climes  they 

sought, 
Ventures  achieved,  and  battles  fought ; 
How  oft  with  few,  how  oft  alone, 
Fierce  Harold's  arm  the  field  hath  won. 
Men  swore  his  eye,  that  flashed  so  red 
When   each   other    glance   was   quenched 

with  dread, 
Bore  oft  a  light  of  deadly  flame 
That  ne'er  from  mortal  courage  came. 
Those  limbs  so  strong,  that  mood  so  stern, 
That  loved  the  couch  of  heath  and  fern, 
Afar  from  hamlet,  tower,  and  town, 
More  than  to  rest  on  driven  down ; 
That  stubborn  frame,  that  sullen  mood, 
Men  deemed  must  come  of  aught  but  good  ; 
And  they  whispered  the  great  Master  Fiend 

was  at  one 
With   Harold  the  Dauntless,  Count  Witi< 

kind's  son. 

xx. 

Years  after  years  had  gone  and  fled, 

The  good  old  prelate  lies  lapped  in  lead; 

In  the  chapel  still  is  shown 

His  sculptured  form  on  a  marble  stone, 

With  staff  and  ring  and  scapulaire, 

And  folded  hands  in  the  act  of  prayer.  a 

Saint  Cuthbert's  mitre  is  resting  now 

On  the  haughty  Saxon,  bold  Aldingar's  brow : 

The  power  of  his  crosier  he  loved  to  extend 


HAROLD    THE  DAUNTLESS. 


441 


O'er  whatever   would   break  or   whatever 

would  bend ; 
And  now  hath  he  clothed  him  in  cope  and 

in  pall, 
And  the  Chapter  of  Durham  has  met  at  his 

call. 
'And  hear  ye   not,   brethren,'   the   proud 

bishop  said, 
;  That  our  vassal,  the  Danish  Count  Witi- 

kind  's  dead  ? 
All  his  gold  and  his  goods  hath  he  given 
To  holy  Church  for  the  love  of  Heaven, 
And  hath  founded  a  chantry  with  stipend 

and  dole 
That  priests  and  that  beadsmen  may  pray 

for  his  soul : 
Harold  his  son  is  wandering  abroad, 
Dreaded  by  man  and  abhorred  by  God; 
Meet  it  is  not  that  such  should  heir 
The  lands  of  the  Church  on  the  Tyne  and 

the  Wear, 
And  at  her  pleasure  her  hallowed  hands 
May  now  resume  these  wealthy  lands.' 


XXI. 

Answered  good  Eustace,  a  canon  old,  — 
1  Harold  is  tameless  and  furious  and  bold ; 
Ever  Renown  blows  a  note  of  fame 
And  a  note  of  fear  when  she  sounds  his 

name  : 
Much  of  bloodshed  and  much  of  scathe 
Have  been  their  lot  who  have  waked  his 

wrath. 
Leave  him  these  lands  and  lordships  still, 
Heaven  in  its  hour  may  change  his  will ; 
But  if  reft  of  gold  and  of  living  bare, 
An  evil  counsellor  is  despair.' 
More  had  he  said,  but  the  prelate  frowned, 
And    murmured    his    brethren  who    sate 

around, 
And  with  one  consent  have  they  given  their 

doom 
That  the  Church  should  the  lands  of  Saint 

Cuthbert  resume. 
So  willed  the  prelate  ;  and  canon  and  dean 
Gave  to  his  judgment  their  loud  amen. 


pfaralti  tfje  Dauntless. 

CANTO    SECOND. 


'Tis  merry  in  greenwood  —  thus  runs  the 

old  lay  — 
In  the  gladsome  month  of  lively  May, 
When  the  wild  birds'  song  on  stem  and  spray 

Invites  to  forest  bower  ; 
Then  rears  the  ash  his  airy  crest, 
Then  shines  the  birch  in  silver  vest, 
And  the  beech  in  glistening  leaves  is  drest, 


And  dark  between  shows  the  oak's  proud 
breast . 
Like  a  chieftain's  frowning  tower ; 
Though   a  thousand    branches   join   their 

screen, 
'Yet  the  broken  sunbeams  glance  between 
And  tip  the  leaves  with  lighter  green, 

With  brighter  tints  the  flower : 
Dull  is  the  heart  that  loves  not  then 


442 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL    WORKS. 


The  deep  recess  of  the  wildwood  glen, 
Where  roe  and  red-deer  find  sheltering  den 
When  the  sun  is  in  his  power. 


Less  merry  perchance  is  the  fading  leaf 
That  follows  so  soon  on  the  gathered  sheaf 

When  the  greenwood  loses  the  n?.me  ; 
Silent  is  then  the  forest  bound, 
Save  the  redbreast's  note  and  the  rustling 

sound 
Of  frost-nipt  leaves  that  are  dropping  round, 
Or  the  deep-mouthed  cry  of  the  distant  hound 

That  opens  on  his  game  : 
Yet  then  too  I  love  the  forest  wide, 
Whether  the  sun  in  splendor  ride 
And  gild  its  many-colored  side, 
Or  whether  the  soft  and  silvery  haze 
In  vapory  folds  o'er  the  landscape  strays, 
And  half  involves  the  woodland  maze, 

Like  an  early  widow's  veil, 
Where  wimpling  tissue  from  the  gaze 
The  form  half  hides  and  half  betrays 

Of  beauty  wan  and  pale. 

in. 
Fair  Metelill  was  a  woodland  maid, 
Her  father  a  rover  of  greenwood  shade, 
By  forest  statutes  undismayed, 

Who  lived  by  bow  and  quiver ; 
Well  known  was  Wulfstane's  archery 
By  merry  Tyne  both  on  moor  and  lea, 
Through  wooded  Weardale's  glens  so  free, 
Well  beside  Stanhope's  wildwood  tree, 

And  well  on  Ganlesse  river. 
Yet  free  though  he  trespassed  on  woodland 

game, 
More  known  and  more  feared  was  the  wiz- 
ard fame 
Of  Jutta  of  Rookhope,  the  Outlaw's  dame  ; 
Feared  when  she  frowned  was  her  eye  of 
flame, 
More  feared  when  in  wrath  she  laughed ; 
For  then,  't  was  said,  more  fatal  true 
To  its  dread  aim  her  spell-glance  flew 
Than  when  from  Wulfstane's  bended  yew 
Sprung  forth  the  gray-goose  shaft. 


Yet  had  this  fierce  and  dreaded  pair, 
So  Heaven  decreed,  a  daughter  fair  ; 

None  brighter  crowned  the  bed, 
In  Britain's  bounds,  of  peer  or  prince, 
Nor  hath  perchance  a  lovelier  since 

In  this  fair  isle  been  bred. 
And  naught  of  fraud  or  ire  or  ill 
Wu  known  to  gentle  Metelill, — 

A  simple  maiden  she ; 
The  spells  in  dimpled  smile  that  lie, 
And  a  downcast  blush,  and  the  darts  that  fly 
With  the  sidelong  glance  of  a  hazel  eye, 


Were  her  arms  and  witchery. 
So  young,  so  simple  was  she  yet, 
She  scarce  could  childhood's  joys  forget, 
And  still  she  loved,  in  secret  set 

Beneath  the  greenwood  tree, 
To  plait  the  rushy  coronet 
And  braid  with  flowers  her  locks  of  jet. 

As  when  in  infancy ;  — 
Yet  could  that  heart  so  simple  prove 
The  early  dawn  of  stealing  love  : 

Ah  !  gentle  maid,  beware  ! 
The  power  who,  now  so  mild  a  guest, 
Gives  dangerous  yet  delicious  zest 
To  the  calm  pleasures  of  thy  breast, 
Will  soon,  a  tyrant  o'er  the  rest, 

Let  none  his  empire  share. 

v. 

One  morn  in  kirtle  green  arrayed 
Deep  in  the  wood  the  maiden  strayed, 

And  where  a  fountain  sprung 
She  sate  her  down  unseen  to  thread 
The  scarlet  berry's  mimic  braid, 

And  while  the  beads  she  strung, 
Like  the  blithe  lark  whose  carol  gay 
Gives  a  good-morrow  to  the  day, 

So  lightsomely  she  sung. 

VI. 

Song. 

1  Lord  William  was  born  in  gilded  bower, 
The  heir  of  Wilton's  lofty  tower ; 
Yet  better  loves  Lord  William  now 
To  roam  beneath  wild  Rookhope's  brow ; 
And  William  has  lived  where  ladies  fair 
With  gawds  and  jewels  deck  their  hair, 
Yet  better  loves  the  dewdrops  still 
That  pearl  the  locks  of  Metelill. 

'  The  pious  palmer  loves.  I  wis, 
Saint  Cuthbert's  hallowed  beads  to  kiss ; 
But  I,  though  simple  girl  I  be, 
Might  have  such  homage  paid  to  me ; 
For  did  Lord  William  see  me  suit 
This  necklace  of  the  bramble's  fruit, 
He  fain  —  but  must  not  have  his  will  — 
Would  kiss  the  beads  of  Metelill. 

*  My  nurse  has  told  me  many  a  tale, 
How  vows  of  love  are  weak  and  frail ; 
My  mother  says  that  courtly  youth 
By  rustic  maid  means  seldom  sooth. 
What  should  they  mean  ?  it  cannot  be 
That  such  a  warning  's  meant  for  me, 
For  naught  — O,  naught  of  fraud  or  ill 
Can  William  mean  to  Metelill ! ' 

VII. 

Sudden  she  stops  —  and  starts  to  feel 
A  weighty  hand,  a  glove  of  steel, 


HAROLD    THE  DAUNTLESS. 


443 


Upon  her  shrinking  shoulders  laid  ; 
Fearful  she  turned,  and  saw  dismayed 
A  knight  in  plate  and  mail  arrayed, 
His  crest  and  bearing  worn  and  frayed, 

His  surcoat  soiled  and  riven, 
Formed  like  that  giant  race  of  yore 
Whose  long-continued  crimes  outwore 

The  sufferance  of  Heaven. 
Stern  accents  made  his  pleasure  known, 
Though  then  he  used  his  gentlest  tone : 
'  Maiden,'  he  said,  '  sing  forth  thy  glee. 
Start  not  —  sing  on  — it  pleases  me.' 

VIII. 

Secured  within  his  powerful  hold, 
To  bend  her  knee,  her  hands  to  fold, 

Was  all  the  maiden  might ; 
And  '  O,  forgive,'  she  faintly  said, 
1  The  terrors  of  a  simple  maid, 

If  thou  art  mortal  wight ! 
But  if  —  of  such  strange  tales  are  told  — 
Unearthly  warrior  of  the  wold, 
Thou  comest  to  chide  mine  accents  bold, 
My  mother,  Jutta,  knows  the  spell 
At  noon  and  midnight  pleasing  well 

The  disembodied  ear; 
O,  let  her  powerful  charms  atone 
For  aught  my  rashness  may  have  done, 

And  cease  thy  grasp  of  fear.' 
Then  laughed  the  knight  —  his  laughter's 

sound 
Half  in  the  hollow  helmet  drowned  ; 
His  barred  visor  then  he  raised, 
And  steady  on  the  maiden  gazed. 
He  smoothed  his  brows,  as  best  he  might, 
To  the  dread  calm  of  autumn  night, 

When  sinks  the  tempest  roar, 
Yet  still  the  cautious  fishers  eye 
The  clouds  and  fear  the  gloomy  sky, 

And  haul  their  barks  on  shore. 


IX. 

'  Damsel,'  he  said,  '  be  wise,  and  learn 
Matters  of  weight  and  deep  concern : 

From  distant  realms  I  come, 
And  wanderer  long  at  length  have  planned 
In  this  my  native  Northern  land 

To  seek  myself  a  home. 
Nor  that  alone  —  a  mate  I  seek  ; 
She  must  be  gentle,  soft,  and  meek,  — 

No  lordly  dame  for  me  ; 
Myself  am  something  rough  of  mood 
And  feel  the  fire  of  royal  blood, 
And  therefore  do  not  hold  it  good 

To  match  in  my  degree. 
Then,  since  coy  maidens  say  my  face 
Is  harsh,  my  form  devoid  of  grace, 
For  a  fair  lineage  to  provide 
'T  is  meet  that  my  selected  bride 


In  lineaments  be  fair; 
I  love  thine  well  —  till  now  I  ne'er 
Looked  patient  on  a  face  of  fear, 
But  now  that  tremulous  sob  and  tear 

Become  thy  beauty  rare. 
One  kiss  —  nay,  damsel,  coy  it  not !  - 
And  now  go  seek  thy  parents'  cot, 
And  say  a  bridegroom  soon  I  come 
To  woo  my  love  and  bear  her  home.' 


x. 

Home  sprung  the  maid  without  a  pause, 
As  leveret  'scaped  from  greyhound's  jaws  ; 
But  still  she  locked,  howe'er  distressed,    , 
The  secret  in  her  boding  breast ; 
Dreading  her  sire,  who  oft  forbade 
Her  steps  should  stray  to  distant  glade. 
Night  came  —  to  her  accustomed  nook 
Her  distaff  aged  Jutta  took, 
And  by  the  lamp's  imperfect  glow 
Rough  Wulfstane  trimmed  his  shafts  and 

bow. 
Sudden  and  clamorous  from  the  ground 
Upstarted  slumbering  brach  and  hound  ; 
Loud  knocking  next  the  lodge  alarms 
And  Wulfstane  snatches  at  his  arms, 
When  open  flew  the  yielding  door 
And  that  grim  warrior  pressed  the  floor. 


XI. 

•  All  peace  be  here  —  What !  none  replies  ? 
Dismiss  your  fears  and  your  surprise. 
'T  is  I  — that  maid  hath  told  my  tale, — 
Or,  trembler,  did  thy  courage  fail  ? 
It  recks  not  —  it  is  I  demand 
Fair  Metelill  in  marriage  band  ; 
Harold  the  Dauntless  I,  whose  name 
Is  brave  men's  boast  and  caitiff's  shame.' 
The  parents  sought  each  other's  eyes 
With  awe,  resentment,  and  surprise  : 
Wulfstane,  to  quarrel  prompt,  began 
The  stranger's  size  and  thews  to  scan ; 
But  as  he  scanned  his  courage  sunk, 
And  from  unequal  strife  he  shrunk, 
Then  forth  to  blight  and  blemish  flies 
The  harmful  curse  from  Jutta's  eyes  ; 
Yet,  fatal  howsoe'er,  the  spell 
On  Harold  innocently  fell ! 
And  disappointment  and  amaze 
Were  in  the  witch's  wildered  gaze. 


XII. 

But  soon  the  wit  of  woman  woke, 
And  to  the  warrior  mild  she  spoke  : 
'  Her  child  was  all  too  young.'  —  •  A  toy, 
The  refuge  of  a  maiden  coy.' 
Again,  '  A  powerful  baron's  heir 
Claims  in  her  heart  an  interest  fair.' 


444 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL    WORKS. 


-  A  trifle  — whisper  in  his  ear 

That  Harold  is  a  suitor  here  ! '  — 

Baffled  at  length  she  sought  delay : 

■  Would  not  the  knight  till  morning  stay  ? 

Late  was  the  hour  —  he  there  might  rest 

Till  morn,  their  lodge's  honored  guest' 

Such   were   her  words  — her   craft   might 

cast 
Her  honored  guest  should  sleep  his  last : 
•  No,  not  to-night  — but  soon,'  he  swore, 
'  He  would  return,  nor  leave  them  more.' 
The  threshold  then  his  huge  stride  crost, 
And  soon  he  was  in  darkness  lost. 

XIII. 

Appalled  awhile  the  parents  stood, 

Then  changed  their  fear  to  angry  mood, 

And  foremost  fell  their  words  of  ill 

On  unresisting  Metelill  : 

Was  she  not  cautioned  and  forbid, 

Forewarned,  implored,  accused,  and  chid, 

And  must  she  still  to  greenwood  roam 

To  marshal  such  misfortune  home  ? 

1  Hence,  minion  —  to  thy  chamber  hence  — 

There  prudence  learn  and  penitence.' 

She  went  —  her  lonely  couch  to  steep 

In  tears  which  absent  lovers  weep; 

Or  if  she  gained  a  troubled  sleep, 

Fierce  Harold's  suit  was  still  the  theme 

And  terror  of  her  feverish  dream. 

XIV. 

Scarce  was  she  gone,  her  dame  and  sire 

Upon  each  other  bent  their  ire  ; 

4  A  woodsman  thou  and  hast  a  spear, 

And  couldst  thou  such  an  insult  bear?' 

Sullen  he  said,  'A  man  contends 

With  men,  a  witch  with  sprites  and  fiends; 

Not  to  mere  mortal  wight  belong 

Yon  gloomy  brow  and  frame  so  strong. 

But  thou  —is  this  thy  promise  fair, 

That  your  Lord  William,  wealthy  heir 

To  Ulrick,  Baron  of  Witton-le-Wear, 

Should  Metelill  to  altar  bear? 

Do  all  the  spells  thou  boast'st  as  thine 

-   hut  to  slay  some  peasant's  kine, 
His  grain  in  autumn's  storms  to  steep, 
( )r  thorough  tog  and  fen  to  sweep 
And  hag-ride  some  poor  rustic's  sleep  ? 

Li  h  inc. in  mischief  worth  the  fame 
and  witch's  name? 

it-,  which  with  all  men's  wish  conspires, 
With  thy  deserts  and  my  desires, 
To  damn  thy  corpse  to  penal  fires  ? 
Out  on  thee',  witch  I  aroint!  aroint! 
What  now  shall  put  thy  schemes  in  joint? 
What  save  this  trusty  arrow's  point, 
From  the  dark  dingle  when  it  flies 
And  he  who  meets  it  gasps  and  dies?  ' 


xv. 

Stern  she  replied,  '  I  will  not  wage 

War  with  thy  folly  or  thy  rage ; 

But  ere  the  morrow's  sun  be  low, 

Wulfstane  of  Rookhope,  thou  shalt  know 

If  I  can  venge  me  on  a  foe. 

Believe  the  while  that  whatsoe'er 

I  spoke  in  ire  of  bow  and  spear, 

It  is  not  Harold's  destiny 

The  death  of  pilfered  deer  to  die. 

But  he,  and  thou,  and  yon  pale  moon  — 

That  shall  be  yet  more  pallid  soon, 

Before  she  sink  behind  the  dell  — 

Thou,  she,  and  Harold  too,  shall  tell 

What  Jutta  knows  of  charm  or  spell.' 

Thus  muttering,  to  the  door  she  bent 

Her  wayward  steps  and  forth  she  went, 

And  left  alone  the  moody  sire 

To  cherish  or  to  slake  his  ire. 

xvi. 

Far  faster  than  belonged  to  age 
Has  Jutta  made  her  pilgrimage. 
A  priest  has  met  her  as  she  passed, 
And  crossed  himself  and  stood  aghast : 
She  traced  a  hamlet  —  not  a  cur 
His  throat  would  ope,  his  foot  would  stir ; 
By  crouch,  by  trembling,  and  by  groan, 
They  made  her  hated  presence  known  ! 
But  when  she  trode  the  sable  fell, 
Were  wilder  sounds  her  way  to  tell,  — 
For  far  was  heard  the  fox's  yell, 
The  black-cock  waked  and  faintly  crew, 
Screamed  o'er  the  moss  the  scared  curlew  ; 
Where  o'er  the  cataract  the  oak 
Lay  slant,  was  heard  the  raven's  croak ; 
The  mountain-cat  which  sought  his  prey 
Glared,  screamed,  and  started  from  her  way. 
Such  music  cheered  her  journey  lone 
To  the  deep  dell  and  rocking  stone : 
There  with  unhallowed  hymn  of  praise 
She  called  a  god  of  heathen  days. 

XVII. 

3nbocation. 

'  From  thy  Pomeranian  throne, 
Hewn  in  rock  of  living  stone, 
Where,  to  thy  godhead  faithful  yet, 
Bend  Esthonian,  Finn,  and  Lett, 
And  their  swords  in  vengeance  whet, 
That  shall  make  thine  altars  wet, 
Wet  and  red  for  ages  more 
With  the  Christian's  hated  gore,  — 
Hear  me,  Sovereign  of  the  Rock ! 
Hear  me,  mighty  Zernebock  ! 

1  Mightiest  of  the  mighty  known, 
Here  thy  wonders  have  been  shown ; 


HAROLD    THE  DAUNTLESS. 


445 


Hundred  tribes  in  various  tongue 
Oft  have  here  thy  praises  sung ; 
Down  that  stone  with  Runic  seamed 
Hundred  victims'  blood  hath  streamed! 
Now  one  woman  comes  alone 
And  but  wets  it  with  her  own, 
The  last,  the  feeblest  of  thy  flock, — 
Hear  —  and  be  present,  Zernebock ! 

'  Hark !  he  comes  !  the  night-blast  cold 
Wilder  sweeps  along  the  wold  ; 
The  cloudless  moon  grows  dark  and  dim, 
And  bristling  hair  and  quaking  limb 
Proclaim  the  Master  Demon  nigh, — 
Those  who  view  his  form  shall  die ! 
Lo  !  I  stoop  and  veil  my  head  ; 
Thou  who  ridest  the  tempest  dread, 
Shaking  hill  and  rending  oak  — 
Spare  me  !  spare  me,  Zernebock  ! 

1  He  comes  not  yet !     Shall  cold  delay 
Thy  votaress  at  her  need  repay  ? 
Thou  —  shall  I  call  thee  god  or  fiend?  — 
Let  others  on  thy  mood  attend 
With  prayer  and  ritual  —  Jutta's  arms 
Are  necromantic  words  and  charms  ; 
Mine  is  the  spell  that  uttered  once 
Shall  wake  thy  Master  from  his  trance, 
Shake  his  red  mansion-house  of  pain 
And  burst  his  seven-times-twisted  chain  !  - 
So !  com'st  thou  ere  the  spell  is  spoke  ? 
I  own  thy  presence,  Zernebock.'  — 

XVIII. 

•  Daughter  of  dust,'  the  Deep  Voice  said  - 
Shook  while  it  spoke  the  vale  for  dread, 
Rocked  on  the  base  that  massive  stone, 
The  Evil  Deity  to  own,  — 
'  Daughter  of  dust !  not  mine  the  power 
Thou  seek'st  on  Harold's  fatal  hour. 


'Twixt  heaven  and  hell  there  is  a  strife 

Waged  for  his  soul  and  for  his  life, 

And  fain  would  we  the  combat  win 

And  snatch  him  in  his  hour  of  sin. 

There  is  a  star  now  rising  red 

That  threats  him  with  an  influence  dread: 

Woman,  thine  arts  of  malice  whet, 

To  use  the  space  before  it  set. 

Involve  him  with  the  church  in  strife, 

Push  on  adventurous  chance  his  life ; 

Ourself  will  in  the  hour  of  need, 

As  best  we  may,  thy  counsels  speed.' 

So  ceased  the  Voice ;    for  seven  leagues 

round 
Each  hamlet  started  at  the  sound, 
But  slept  again  as  slowly  died 
Its  thunders  on  the  hill's  brown  side. 


•  And  is  this  all,'  said  Jutta  stern, 

*  That  thou  canst  teach  and  I  can  learn  ? 
Hence  !  to  the  land  of  fog  and  waste, 
There  fittest  is  thine  influence  placed, 
Thou  powerless,  sluggish  Deity  ! 

But  ne'er  shall  Briton  bend  the  knee 
Again  before  so  poor  a  god.' 
She  struck  the  altar  with  her  rod ; 
Slight  was  the  touch  as  when  at  need 
A  damsel  stirs  her  tardy  steed  ;' 
But  to  the  blow  the  stone  gave  place, 
And,  starting  from  its  balanced  base, 
Rolled    thundering    down    the    moonlight 

dell,  — 
Re-echoed  moorland,  rock,  and  fell ; 
Into  the  moonlight  tarn  it  dashed, 
Their  shores  the  sounding  surges  lashed, 

And  there  was  ripple,  rage,  and  foam ; 
But  on  that  lake,  so  dark  and  lone, 
Placid  and  pale  the  moonbeam  shone 

As  Jutta  hied  her  home. 


Varolii  t&e  JBauntlegs. 


CANTO  THIRD. 


Gray  towers  of  Durham !  there  was  once  a  time 
I  viewed  your  battlements  with  such  vague  hope 
As  brightens  life  in  its  first  dawning  prime ; 
Not  that  e'en  then  came  within  fancy's  scope 
A  vision  vain  of  mitre,  throne,  or  cope  ; 
Yet,  gazing  on  the  venerable  hall, 
Her  flattering  dreams  would  in  perspective  ope 
Some  reverend  room,  some  prebendary's  stall,  — 
And  thus  Hope  me  deceived  as  she  deceiveth  all. 


44^ 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL   WORKS. 


Well  yet  I  love  thy  mixed  and  massive  piles, 
Half  church  of  God,  half  castle  'gainst  the  Scot, 
And  long  to  roam  these  venerable  aisles, 
With  records  stored  of  deeds  long  since  forgot ; 
There  might  I  share  my  Surtees'  happier  lot, 
Who  leaves  at  will  his  patrimonial  field 
To  ransack  every  crypt  and  hallowed  spot, 
And  from  oblivion  rend  the  spoils  they  yield, 
Restoring  priestly  chant  and  clang  of  knightly  shield. 

Vain  is  the  wish  —  since  other  cares  demand 
Each  vacant  hour,  and  in  another  clime ; 
But  still  that  northern  harp  invites  my  hand 
Which  tells  the  wonder  of  thine  earlier  time  ; 
And  fain  its  numbers  would  I  now  command 
To  paint  the  beauties  of  that  dawning  fair 
When  Harold,  gazing  from  its  lofty  stand 
Upon  the  western  heights  of  Beaurepaire, 
Saw  Saxon  Eadmer's  towers  begirt  by  winding  Wear. 


II. 

Fair  on  the  half-seen  streams  the  sunbeams  danced. 
Betraying  it  beneath  the  woodland  bank, 
And  fair  between  the  Gothic  turrets  glanced 
Broad  lights,  and  shadows  fell  on  front  and  flank, 
Where  tower  and  buttress  rose  in  martial  rank, 
And  girdled  in  the  massive  donjon  keep, 
And  from  their  circuit  pealed  o'er  bush  and  bank 
The  matin  bell  with  summons  long  and  deep, 
And  echo  answered  still  with  long-resounding  sweep. 


in. 
The  morning  mists  rose  from  the  ground, 
Each  merry  bird  awakened  round 

As  if  in  revelry ; 
Afar  the  bugle's  clanging  sound 
Called  to  the  chase  the  lagging  hound ; 

The  gale  breathed  soft  and  free, 
And  seemed  to  linger  on  its  way 
To  catch  fresh  odors  from  the  spray, 
And  waved  it  in  its  wanton  play 

So  light  and  gamesomely. 
The  scenes  which  morning  beams  reveal, 

unds  to  hear,  its  gales  to  feel 
In  all  their  fragrance  round  him  steal, 
It  melted  Harold's  heart  of  steel, 
And,  hardly  wotting  why, 
He  doffed  his  helmet's  gloomy  pride 
And  hung  it  on  a  tree  beside, 

I. aid  mace  and  falchion  by, 
And  on  the  greensward  sate  him  down 
And  from  his  dark  habitual  frown 

Relaxed  his  rugged  brow  — 
Whoever  hath  the  doubtful  task 
From  that  stern  Dane  a  boon  to  ask 

\\'«  !«•  wise  to  ask  it  now. 

IV. 

His  place  beside  young  Gunnar  took 
And  marked  his  master's  softening  look, 


And  in  his  eye's  dark  mirror  spied 
The  gloom  of  stormy  thoughts  subside, 
And  cautious  watched  the  fittest  tide 

To  speak  a  warning  word. 
So  when  the  torrent's  billows  shrink, 
The  timid  pilgrim  on  the  brink 
Waits  long  to  see  them  wave  and  sink 

Ere  he  dare  brave  the. ford, 
And  often  after  doubtful  pause 
His  step  advances  or  withdraws ; 
Fearful  to  move  the  slumbering  ire 
Of  his  stern  lord,  thus  stood  the  squire 

Till  Harold  raised  his  eye, 
That  glanced  as  when  athwart  the  shroud 
Of  the  dispersing  tempest-cloud 

The  bursting  sunbeams  fly. 

v. 

1  Arouse  thee,  son  of  Ermengarde, 
Offspring  of  prophetess  and  bard  ! 
Take  harp  and  greet  this  lovely  prime 
With  some  high  strain  of  Runic  rhyme, 
Strong,  deep,  and  powerful !  Peal  it  round 
Like  that  loud  bell's  sonorous  sound, 
Yet  wild  by  fits,  as  when  the  lay 
Of  bird  and  bugle  hail  the  day. 
Such  was  my  grandsire  Eric's  sport 
When  dawn  gleamed  on  his  martial  court. 


HAROLD    THE  DAUNTLESS. 


447 


Heymar  the  Scald  with  harp's  high  sound 
Summoned  the  chiefs  who  slept  around  ; 
Couched  on  the  spoils  of  wolf  and  bear, 
They  roused  like  lions  from  their  lair, 
Then  rushed  in  emulation  forth 
To  enhance  the  glories  of  the  north.  — 
Proud  Eric,  mightiest  of  thy  race, 
Where  is  thy  shadowy  resting-place  ? 
In  wild  Valhalla  hast  thou  quaffed 
From  foeman's  skull  metheglin  draught, 
Or  wanderest  where  thy  cairn  was  piled 
To  frown  o'er  oceans  wide  and  wild  ? 
Or  have  the  milder  Christians  given 
Thy  refuge  in  their  peaceful  heaven  ? 
Where'er  thou  art,  to  thee  are  known 
Our  toils  endured,  our  trophies  won, 
Our  wars,  our  wanderings,  and  our  woes.' 
He  ceased,  and  Gunnar's  song  arose. 


VI. 

*  Hawk  and  osprey  screamed  for  joy 
O'er  the  beetling  cliffs  of  Hoy, 
Crimson  foam  the  beach  o'erspread, 
The  heath  was  dyed  with  darker  red, 


When  o'er  Eric,  Inguar's  son, 
Dane  and  Northman  piled  the  stone, 
Singing  wild  the  war-song  stern, 
"  Rest  thee,  Dweller  of  the  Cairn !  " 

'Where  eddying  currents  foam  and  boil 
By  Bersa's  burgh  and  Graemsay's  isle, 
The  seaman  sees  a  martial  form 
Half-mingled  with  the  mist  and  storm. 
In  anxious  awe  he  bears  away 
To  moor  his  bark  in  Stromna's  bay, 
And  murmurs  from  the  bounding  stern, 
"  Rest  thee,  Dweller  of  the  Cairn  !  " 

1  What  cares  disturb  the  mighty  dead  ? 

Each  honored  rite  was  duly  paid  ; 

No  daring  hand  thy  helm  unlaced, 

Thy  sword,   thy   shield,   were    near  thee 

placed ; 
Thy  flinty  couch  no  tear  profaned : 
Without,  with  hostile  blood  'twas  stained  ; 
Within,  't  was  lined  with  moss  and  fern,  — 
Then  rest  thee,  Dweller  of  the  Cairn ! 

1  He  may  not  rest :  from  realms  afar 
Comes  voice  of  battle  and  of  war, 
Of  conquest  wrought  with  bloody  hand 
On  Carmel's  cliffs  and  Jordan's  strand, 


448 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL   WORKS 


When  Odin's  warlike  son  could  daunt 
The  turbaned  race  of  Termagaunt.' 

VII. 

*  Peace,'  said  the  knight,  •  the  noble  Scald 
Our  warlike  fathers'  deeds  recalled, 

But  never  strove  to  soothe  the  son 
With  tales  of  what  himself  had  done. 
At  Odin's  board  the  bard  sits  high 
Whose  harp  ne'er  stooped  to  flattery, 
But  highest  he  whose  daring  lay 
Hath  dared  unwelcome  truths  to  say.' 
With  doubtful  smile  young  Gunnar  eyed 
His  master's  looks  and  naught  replied  — 
But  well  that  smile  his  master  led 
To  construe  what  he  left  unsaid. 

*  Is  it  to  me,  thou  timid  youth, 

Thou  fear'st  to  speak  unwelcome  truth  ! 
My  soul  no  more  thy  censure  grieves 
Than  frosts  rob  laurels  of  their  leaves. 
Say  on  —  and  yet  —  beware  the  rude 
And  wild  distemper  of  my  blood  ; 
Loath  were  I  that  mine  ire  should  wrong 
The  youth  that  bore  my  shield  so  long, 
And  who,  in  service  constant  still, 
Though  weak  in  frame,  art  strong  in  will.'  — 
'  O  ! '  quoth  the  page,  '  even  there  depends 
My  counsel  —  there  my  warning  tends  — 
Oft  seems  as  of  my  master's  breast 
Some  demon  were  the  sudden  guest ; 
Then  at  the  first  misconstrued  word 
His  hand  is  on  the  mace  and  sword, 
From  her  firm  seat  his  wisdom  driven, 
His  life  to  countless  dangers  given. 
O,  would  that  Gunnar  could  suffice 
To  be  the  fiend's  last  sacrifice, 
So  that,  when  glutted  with  my  gore, 
He  fled  and  tempted  thee  no  more  ! ' 

VIII. 

Then  waved  his  hand  and  shook  his  head 
The  impatient  Dane  while  thus  he  said : 
1  Profane  not,  youth  —  it  is  not  thine 
To  jud^e  the  spirit  of  our  line  — 
The  bold  Berserkar's  rage  divine, 
Through  whose  inspiringdeeds  are  wrought 
Past  human  strength  and  human  thought. 
When  full  upon  his  gloomy  soul 
The  champion  feels  the  influence  roll, 
He  swims  the  lake,  he  leaps  the  wall  — 
Heeds  not  the  depth,  nor  plumbs  the  fall  — 
\  n  shielded,  mail-less,  on  he  goes 
Singly  against  a  host  of  foes ; 
Their  spears  he  holds  like  withered  reeds, 
Their  mail  like  maiden's  silken  weeds  ; 
One  'gainst  a  hundred  will  he  strive, 

i  Ountlesa  wounds  and  yet  survive. 
Then  rush  the  eagles  to  his  cry 
Of  slaughter  and  of  victory,  — 
And  blood  he  quaffs  like  Odin's  bowl, 


Deep  drinks  his  sword,  —  deep  drinks  his 

soul; 
And  all  that  meet  him  in  his  ire 
He  gives  to  ruin,  rout,  and  fire ; 
Then,  like  gorged  lion,  seeks  some  den 
And  couches  till  he 's  man  agen.  — 
Thou  know'st  the  signs  of  look  and  limb 
When  'gins  that  rage  to  overbrim  — 
Thou  know'st  when  I  am  moved  and  why : 
And  when  thou  see'st  me  roll  mine  eye,  ' 
Set  my  teeth  thus,  and  stamp  my  foot, 
Regard  thy  safety  and  be  mute  ; 
But  else  speak  boldly  out  whate'er 
Is  fitting  that  a  knight  should  hear. 
I  love  thee,  youth.     Thy  lay  has  power 
Upon  my  dark  and  sullen  hour ;  — 
So  Christian  monks  are  wont  to  say 
Demons  of  old  were  charmed  away ; 
Then  fear  not  I  will  rashly  deem 
111  of  thy  speech,  whate'er  the  theme.' 


As  down  some  strait  in  doubt  and  dread 
The  watchful  pilot  drops  the  lead, 
And,  cautious  in  the  midst  to  steer, 
The  shoaling  channel  sounds  with  fear ; 
So,  lest  on  dangerous  ground  he  swerved, 
The  page  his  master's  brow  observed, 
Pausing  at  intervals  to  fling 
His  hand  on  the  melodious  string, 
And  to  his  moody  breast  apply 
The  soothing  charm  of  harmony, 
While  hinted  half,  and  half  exprest, 
This  warning  song  conveyed  the  rest.  — 

■Song. 
1  111  fares  the  bark  with  tackle  riven, 
And  ill  when  on  the  breakers  driven,  — 
111  when  the  storm-sprite  shrieks  in  air, 
And  the  scared  mermaid  tears  her  hair ; 
But  worse  when  on  her  helm  the  hand 
Of  some  false  traitor  holds  command. 

'Ill  fares  the  fainting  palmer,  placed 
Mid  Hebron's  rocks  or  Rana's  waste,  — 
111  when  the  scorching  sun  is  high, 
And  the  expected  font  is  dry,  — 
Worse  when  his  guide  o'er  sand  and  heath, 
The  barbarous  Copt,  has  planned  his  death. 

'Ill  fares  the  knight  with  buckler  cleft, 
And  ill  when  of  his  helm  bereft,  — 
111  when  his  steed  to  earth  is  flung, 
Or  from  his  grasp  his  falchion  wrung; 
But  worse,  of  instant  ruin  token, 
When  he  lists  rede  by  woman  spoken.'  — 

x. 

*  How  now,  fond  boy?  — Canst  thou  think 

Said  Harold,  'of  fair  Metelill?' 


HAROLD    THE  DAUNTLESS. 


449 


She  may  be  fair,'  the  page  replied 
As  through  the  strings  he  ranged,  - 

She  may  be  fair;  but  yet,'  he  cried, 
And  then  the  strain  he  changed,  — 


Song. 

'  She  may  be  fair,'  he  sang,  '  but  yet 

Far  fairer  have  I  seen 
Than  she,  for  all  her  locks  of  jet 

And  eyes  so  dark  and  sheen. 
Were  I  a  Danish  knight  in  arms, 

As  one  day  I  may  be, 
My  heart  should  own  no  foreign  charms 

A  Danish  maid  for  me  ! 

4 1  love  my  father's  northern  land, 

Where  the  dark  pine-trees  grow, 
And  the  bold  Baltic's  echoing  strand 

Looks  o'er  each  grassy  oe. 
I  love  to  mark  the  lingering  sun, 

From  Denmark  loath  to  go, 
And  leaving  on  the  billows  bright, 
To  cheer  the  short-lived  summer  night, 

A  path  of  ruddy  glow. 

'But  most  the  northern  maid  I  love, 

With  breast  like  Denmark's  snow 
And  form  as  fair  as  Denmark's  pine, 
Who  loves  with  purple  heath  to  twine 

Her  locks  of  sunny  glow  ; 
And  sweetly  blend  that  shade  of  gold 

With  the  cheek's  rosy  hue, 
And  Faith  might  for  her  mirror  hold 

That  eye  of  matchless  blue. 

'  'T  is  hers  the  manly  sports  to  love 

That  southern  maidens  fear, 
To  bend  the  bow  by  stream  and  grove, 

And  lift  the  hunter's  spear. 
She  can  her  chosen  champion's  flight 

With  eye  undazzled  see, 
Clasp  him  victorious  from  the  strife, 
Or  on  his  corpse  yield  up  her  life,  — 

A  Danish  maid  for  me  ! ' 


XI. 

Then  smiled  the  Dane  — c Thou  canst  so  well 
The  virtues  of  our  maidens  tell, 
Half  could  I  wish  my  choice  had  been 
Blue  eyes,  and  hair  of  golden  sheen, 
And  lofty  soul ;  — yet  what  of  ill 
Hast  thou  to  charge  on  Metelill  ?  ' 
'  Nothing  on  her,'  young  Gunnar  said, 
•  But  her  base  sire's  ignoble  trade. 
Her  mother  too  —  the  general  fame 
Hath  given  to  Jutta  evil  name, 
And  in  her  gray  eye  is  a  flame 
Art  cannot  hide  nor  fear  can  tame.  — 
That  sordid  woodman's  peasant  cot 
Twice  have  thine  honored  footsteps  sought, 
And  twice  returned  with  such  ill  rede 
As  sent  thee  on  some  desperate  deed.' 

XII. 

1  Thou  errest ;  Jutta  wisely  said, 
He  that  comes  suitor  to  a  maid, 
Ere  linked  in  marriage,  should  provide 
Lands  and  a  dwelling  for  his  bride  — 
My  father's  by  the  Tyne  and  Wear 
I  have  reclaimed.'  — '  O,  all  too  dear 
And  all  too  dangerous  the  prize, 
E'en  were  it  won,'  young  Gunnar  cries  ;  — 
'  And  then  this  Jutta's  fresh  device, 
That  thou  shouldst  seek,  a  heathen  Dane, 
From  Durham's  priests  a  boon  to  gain 
When  thou  hast  left  their  vassals  slain 
In  their  own  halls  ! ' — Flashed  Harold's  eye, 
Thundered  his  voice  —  '  False  page,  you  lie  J 
The  castle,  hall  and  tower,  is  mine, 
Built  by  old  Witikind  on  Tyne. 
The  wild-cat  will  defend  his  den, 
Fights  for  her  nest  the  timid  wren ; 
And  think'st  thou  I  '11  forego  my  right 
For  dread  of  monk  or  monkish  knight  ?  — 
Up  and  away,  that  deepening  bell 
Doth  of  the  bishop's  conclave  tell. 
Thither  will  I  in  manner  due, 
As  Jutta  bade,  my  claim  to  sue ; 
And  if  to  right  me  they  are  loath, 
Then  woe  to  church  and  chapter  both  ! ' 
Now  shift  the  scene  and  let  the  curtain  fall, 
And  our  next  entry  be  Saint  Cuthbert's  hall. 


29 


450 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL    WORKS. 


Varolii  tfje  ©atmtless- 

CANTO  FOURTH. 


Full  many  a  bard  hath  sung  the  solemn  gloom 
Of  the  long  Gothic  aisle  and  stone-ribbed  roof, 
O'er-canopying  shrine  and  gorgeous  tomb, 
Carved  screen,  and  altar  glimmering  far  aloof 
And  blending  with  the  shade  —a  matchless  proof 
Of  high  devotion,  which  hath  now  waxed  cold; 
Yet  legends  say  that  Luxury's  brute  hoof 
Intruded  oft  within  such  sacred  fold, 
Like  step  of  Bel's  false  priest  tracked  in  his  fane  of  old. 

Well  pleased  am  I,  howe'er,  that  when  the  route 
Of  our  rude  neighbors  whilome  deigned  to  come, 
Uncalled  and  eke  unwelcome,  to  sweep  out 
And  cleanse  our  chancel  from  the  rags  of  Rome, 
They  spoke  not  on  our  ancient  fane  the  doom 
To  which  their  bigot  zeal  gave  o'er  their  own, 
But  spared  the  martyred  saint  and  storied  tomb, 
Though  papal  miracles  had  graced  the  stone, 
And  though  the  aisles  still  loved  the  organ's  swelling  tone. 

And  deem  not,  though  't  is  now  my  part  to  paint 
A  prelate  swayed  by  love  of  power  and  gold, 
That  all  who  wore  the  mitre  of  our  Saint 
Like  to  ambitious  Aldingar  I  hold ; 
Since  both  in  modern  times  and  days  of  old 
It  sate  on  those  whose  virtues  might  atone 
Their  predecessors'  frailties  trebly  told : 
Matthew  and  Morton  we  as  such  may  own  — 
And  such  —  if  fame  speak  truth  — the  honored  Barrington. 


But  now  to  earlier  and  to  ruder  times, 
As    subject   meet,    I    tune    my    rugged 

rhymes, 
Telling  how  fairly  the  chapter  was  met, 
And  rood  and  books  in  seemly  order  set; 
Huge  brass-clasped  volumes  which  the 

band 
( )!'  studious  priest  but  rarely  scanned, 
Now  on  fair  carved  desk  displayed, 
"T  was  theirs  the  solemn  scene  to  aid. 
( )'( i luad  with  many  a  scutcheon  graced 
And  quaint  devices  interlaced, 
A  labyrinth  of  crossing  rows, 
The  root  in  lessening  arches  shows; 
Beneath  its  shade  placed  proud  and  high 
With  footstool  and  with  canopy, 
Sate  .Aldingar  —  and  prelate  ne'er 
More  haughty  graced  Saint  Cuthbert's 

chair; 
(  ai ions  and  deacons  were  placed  below, 
In  due  degree  and  lengthened  row. 
Unmoved  and  silent  each  sat  there, 


Like  image  in  his  oaken  chair ; 

Nor  head  nor  hand  nor  foot  they  stirred, 

Nor  lock  of  hair  nor  tress  of  beard  ; 

And  of  their  eyes  severe  alone 

The  twinkle  showed  they  were  not  stone. 


in. 

The  prelate  was  to  speech  addressed, 
Each  head  sunk  reverent  on  each  breast ; 
But  ere  his  voice  was  heard  —  without 
Arose  a  wild  tumultuous  shout, 
Offspring  of  wonder  mixed  with  fear, 
Such  as  in  crowded  streets  we  hear 
Hailing  the  flames  that,  bursting  out, 
Attract  yet  scare  the  rabble  rout. 
Ere  it  had  ceased  a  giant  hand 
Shook  oaken  door  and  iron  band 
Till  oak  and  iron  both  gave  way, 
Clashed  the  long  bolts,  the  hinges  bray, 
And,  ere  upon  angel  or  saint  they  can  call, 
Stands  Harold  the  Dauntless  in  midst  of 
the  hall. 


HAROLD    THE  DAUNTLESS. 


451 


'  Now  save  ye,  my  masters,  both  rocket  and 
rood, 

From  bishop  with  mitre  to  deacon  with 
hood! 

For  here  stands  Count  Harold,  old  Witi- 
kind's  son, 

Come  to  sue  for  the  lands  which  his  ances- 
tors won.' 

The  prelate  looked  round  him  with  sore 
troubled  eye, 

Unwilling  to  grant  yet  afraid  to  deny ; 

While  each  canon  and  deacon  who  heard 
the  Dane  speak, 

To  be  safely  at  home  would  have  fasted  a 
week :  — 

Then  Aldingar  roused  him  and  answered 
again, 

'  Thou  suest  for  a  boon  which  thou  canst 
not  obtain ; 

The  Church  hath  no  fiefs  for  an  unchris- 
tened  Dane. 

Thy  father  was  wise,  and  his  treasure  hath 
given 

That  the  priests  of  a  chantry  might  hymn 
him  to  heaven; 

And  the  fiefs  which  whilome  he  possessed 
as  his  due 

Have  lapsed  to  the  Church,  and  been 
granted  anew 

To  Anthony  Conyers  and  Alberic  Vere, 

For  the  service  Saint  Cuthbert's  blest  ban- 
ner to  bear 

When  the  bands  of  the  North  come  to  foray 
the  Wear ; 

Then  disturb  not  our  conclave  with  wrang- 
ling or  blame, 

But  in  peace  and  in  patience  pass  hence  as 
ye  came.' 

v. 

Loud  laughed  the  stern  Pagan,  'They're 

free  from  the  care 
Of  fief  and  of  service,  both  Conyers  and 

Vere,  — 
Six   feet  of  your  chancel  is  all  they  will 

need, 
A  buckler  of  stone  and  a  corselet  of  lead.  — 
Ho,  Gunnar !  —  the  tokens ! '  —  and,  severed 

anew, 
A  head  and  a  hand  on  the  altar  he  threw. 
Then   shuddered  with   terror  both   canon 

and  monk, 
They  knew  the  glazed  eye  and  the  counte- 
nance shrunk, 
And  of  Anthony  Conyers  the  half-grizzled 

hair, 
And  the  scar  on  the  hand  of  Sir  Alberic 

Vere. 


There  was  not  a  churchman  or  priest  that 

was  there 
But  grew  pale  at  the  sight  and  betook  him 

to  prayer. 


VI. 

Count  Harold  laughed  at  their  looks  of  fear : 
'Was  this  the  hand   should  your  banner 

bear? 
Was  that  the  head  should  wear  the  casque 
In  battle  at  the  Church's  task? 
Was  it  to  such  you  gave  the  place 
Of  Harold  with  the  heavy  mace  ? 
Find  me  between  the  Wear  and  Tyne 
A  knight  will  wield  this  club  of  mine,  — 
Give  him  my  fiefs,  and  I  will  say- 
There  's  wit  beneath  the  cowl  of  gray.' 
He  raised  it,  rough  with  many  a  stain 
Caught  from  crushed  skull  and  spouting 

brain ; 
He  wheeled  it  that  it  shrilly  sung 
And  the  aisles  echoed  as  it  swung, 
Then  dashed  it  down  with  sheer  descent 
And  split  King  Osric's  monument.  — 
'How  like  ye  this  music?     How  trow  ye 

the  hand 
That  can  wield  such  a  mace  may  be  reft  of 

its  land  ? 
No  answer  ?  —  I  spare  ye  a  space  to  agree, 
And  Saint  Cuthbert  inspire  you,  a  saint  if 

he  be. 
Ten    strides    through    your  chancel,   ten 

strokes  on  your  bell, 
And  again  I  am  with  you  —  grave  fathers, 

farewell.' 

VII. 

He  turned  from  their  presence,  he  clashed 

the  oak  door, 
And  the  clang  of  his  stride  died  away  on 

the  floor ; 
And  his  head  from  his  bosom  the  prelate 

uprears 
With  a  ghost-seer's  look  when  the  ghost 

disappears : 
'Ye  Priests  of  Saint  Cuthbert,  now  give 

me  your  rede, 
For  never  of  counsel  had  bishop  more  need ! 
Were  the  arch-fiend  incarnate  in  flesh  and 

in  bone, 
The  language,  the  look,  and  the  laugh  were 

his  own. 
In  the  bounds  of  Saint  Cuthbert  there  is 

not  a  knight 
Dare  confront  in  our  quarrel  yon  goblin  in 

fight; 
Then  rede  me  aright  to  his  claim  to  reply, 
'T  is  unlawful  to  grant  and  't  is  death  to 

deny.' 


452 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL   WORKS. 


VIII. 

On  venison  and  malmsie  that  morning  had 

fed 
The  Cellarer  Vinsauf  —  't  was  thus  that  he 

said  : 
4  Delay  till  to-morrow  the  Chapter's  reply ; 
Let  the  feast  be  spread  fair  and  the  wine 

be  poured  high  : 
If  he's  mortal  he  drinks,  —  if  he  drinks. 

he  is  ours  — 
His  bracelets   of  iron,  —  his   bed  in  our 

towers.' 
This  man  had  a  laughing  eye, 
Trust  not,  friends,  when  such  you  spy  ; 
A  beaker's  depth  he  well  could  drain, 
Revel,  sport,  and  jest  amain  — 
The  haunch  of  the  deer  and  the  grape's 

bright  dye 
Never  bard  loved  them  better  than  I ; 
But  sooner  than  Vinsauf  filled  me  my  wine, 
Passed  me  his  jest,  and  laughed  at  mine, 
Though  the   buck  were  of   Bearpark,    of 

Bourdeaux  the  vine, 
With  the  dullest  hermit  I  'd  rather  dine 
•On  an  oaken  cake  and  a  draught  of  the 

Tyne. 

IX. 

Walwayn  the  leech  spoke  next  —  he  knew 
Each  plant  that  loves  the  sun  and  dew, 
But  special  those  whose  juice  can  gain 
Dominion  o'er  the  blood  and  brain ; 
The  peasant  who  saw  him  by  pale  moon- 
beam 
<  iathering  such  herbs  by  bank  and  stream 
Deemed  his  thin  form  and  soundless  tread 
Were  those  of  wanderer  from  the  dead.  — 
'  Vinsauf,  thy  wine.'  he  said,  'hath  power, 
•Our  gyves  are  heavy,  strong  our  tower  ; 
Yet  three  drops  from  this  flask  of  mine, 
.More    strong   than    dungeons,    gyves,    or 

wine, 
Shall  give  him  prison  under  ground 

dark,  more  narrow,  more  profound. 
Short  rede,  good  rede,  let  Harold  have— 
A  dog's  death  and  a  heathen's  grave.' 
I  have  lain  on  a  sick  man's  bed, 
Watching  for  hours  for  the  leech's  tread, 
As  n  1  deemed  that  his  presence  alone 
Were  of  power  to  bid  my  pain  begone : 
f  have  listed  his  words  of  comfort  given, 
As  it  to  on.  Irs  from  heaven; 
I  have  counted  his  steps  from  my  chamber 

door, 
And  blessed  them  when  they  were  heard 

no  more;  — 
But  sooner  than  Walwayn  my  sick  couch 

should  nigh, 
My  choice  were  by  leech-craft  unaided  to 
die. 


'Such  service  done  in  fervent  zeal 
The  Church  may  pardon  and  conceal,' 
The  doubtful  prelate  said,  '  but  ne'er 
The  counsel  ere  the  act  should  hear.  — 
Anselm  of  Jarrow,  advise  us  now, 
The  stamp  of  wisdom  is  on  thy  brow ; 
Thy  days,  thy  nights,  in  cloister  pent, 
Are  still  to  mystic  learning  lent ;  — 
Anselm  of  Jarrow,  in  thee  is  my  hope, 
Thou  well  mayst  give  counsel  to  prelate  or 
pope.' 

XI. 

Answered  the  prior  —  "Tis  wisdom's  use 
Still  to  delay  what  we  dare  not  refuse  ; 
Ere  granting  the  boon  he  comes  hither  to 

ask, 
Shape  for  the  giant  gigantic  task  ; 
Let  us  see  how  a  step  so  sounding  can 

tread 
In  paths  of  darkness,  danger,  and  dread ; 
He  may  not,  he  will  not,  impugn  our  decree 
That  calls  but  for  proof  of  his  chivalry ; 
And  were  Guy  to  return  or  Sir  Bevis  the 

Strong, 
Our  wilds   have  adventure  might  cumber 

them  long  — 
The    Castle  of  Seven    Shields  '  —  '  Kind 

Anselm,  no  more  ! 
The  step  of  the  Pagan  approaches  the  door.' 
The    churchmen   were    hushed.  —  In   his 

mantle  of  skin 
With  his   mace    on    his   shoulder   Count 

Harold  strode  in. 
There  was  foam  on  his  lips,  there  was  fire 

in  his  eye, 
For,  chafed  by  attendance,  his  fury  was 

nigh. 
'Ho!    Bishop,'  he  said,  'dost  thou  grant 

me  my  claim? 
Or  must  I  assert  it  by  falchion  and  flame  ? ' 

XII. 

'On  thy  suit,  gallant  Harold,'  the  bishop 

replied, 
In  accents  which  trembled,  'we  may  not 

decide 
Until  proof  of  your  strength  and  your  valor 

we  saw  — 
'T  is  not  that  we  doubt  them,  but  such  is 

the  law.'  — 
'  And  would  you,  Sir  Prelate,  have  Harold 

make  sport 
For  the  cowls  and  the  shavelings  that  herd 

in  thy  court  ? 
Say  what  shall  he  do  ?  —  From  the  shrine 

shall  he  tear 
The  lead  bier  of  thy  patron  and  heave  it  in 

air. 


HAROLD    THE  DAUNTLESS. 


453 


And  through  the  long  chancel  make  Cuth- 

bert  take  wing 
With  the  speed  of  a  bullet  dismissed  from 

the  sling  ?  '  — 
•  Nay,  spare  such  probation,'  the  cellarer 

said, 
1  From  the  mouth  of  our  minstrels  thy  task 

shall  be  read. 
While  the  wine  sparkles  high  in  the  goblet 

of  gold 
And  the  revel  is  loudest,  thy  task  shall  be 

told; 
And  thyself,  gallant  Harold,  shall,  hearing 

it,  tell 
That  the  bishop,  his  cowls,  and  his  shave- 
lings, meant  well.' 

XIII. 

Loud  revelled  the  guests  and  the  goblets 

loud  rang, 
But  louder  the  minstrel,  Hugh  Meneville, 

sang; 
And  Harold,  the  hurry  and  pride  of  whose 

soul, 
E'en  when  verging  to  fury,  owned  music's 

control, 
Still  bent  on  the  harper  his  broad  sable  eye, 
And  often  untasted  the  goblet  passed  by ; 
Than  wine  or  than  wassail  to  him  was  more 

dear 
The  minstrel's  high  tale  of  enchantment  to 

hear  ; 
And  the  bishop  that  day  might  of  Vinsauf 

complain 
That  his  art  had  but  wasted  his  wine-casks 

in  vain. 

XIV. 

Sfjr  Castle  of  tfjt  $rtnt  Sfjtetos. 

A   BALLAD. 

The  Druid  Urien  had  daughters  seven, 
Their  skill  could  call  the  moon  from  heaven; 
So  fair  their  forms  and  so  high  their  fame 
That  seven  proud  kings  for  their  suitors 
came. 

King  Mador  and  Rhys  came  from  Powis 

and  Wales, 
Unshorn  was  their  hair  and  unpruned  were 

their  nails ; 
From  Strath-Clyde  was  Ewain,  and  Ewain 

was  lame, 
And  the  red-bearded  Donald  from  Galloway 

came. 

Lot,  King  of  Lodon,  was  hunchbacked  from 

youth ; 
Dunmail  of  Cumbria  had  never  a  tooth ; 


But  Adolf  of  Bambrough,  Northumberland's 

heir, 
Was  gay  and  was  gallant,  was  young  and 

was  fair. 


There  was  strife  'mongst  the  sisters,  for 

each  one  would  have 
For  husband  King  Adolf,  the  gallant  and 

brave  ; 
And  envy  bred  hate,  and  hate  urged  them 

to  blows, 
When  the   firm   earth    was   cleft   and  the 

Arch-fiend  arose  ! 

He  swore   to  the  maidens   their  wish   to 

fulfil  — 
They  swore  to  the  foe  they  would  work  by 

his  will. 
A  spindle  and  distaff  to  each  hath  he  given, 
*  Now  hearken  my  spell,'  said  the  Outcast 

of  heaven. 

'Ye  shall  ply  these  spindles  at  midnight 
hour, 

And  for  every  spindle  shall  rise  a  tower, 

Where  the  right  shall  be  feeble,  the  wrong 
shall  have  power, 

And  there  shall  ye  dwell  with  your  para- 
mour.' 

Beneath  the  pale  moonlight  they  sate  on 
the  wold, 

And  the  rhymes  which  they  chanted  must 
never  be  told ; 

And  as  the  black  wool  from  the  distaff  they 
sped, 

With  blood  from  their  bosom  they  moist- 
ened the  thread. 

As  light  danced  the  spindles  beneath  the 

cold  gleam, 
The  castle  arose  like  the  birth  of  a  dream  — 
The  seven  towers  ascended  like  mist  from 

the  ground, 
Seven  portals  defend  them,  seven  ditches 

surround. 

Within  that  dread  castle  seven  monarchs 
were  wed, 

But  six  of  the  seven  ere  the  morning  lay 
dead; 

With  their  eyes  all  on  fire  and  their  daggers 
all  red, 

Seven  damsels  surround  the  Northum- 
brian's bed. 

1  Six  kingly  bridegrooms  to  death  we  have 

done, 
Six  gallant  kingdoms  King  Adolf  hath  won, 


454 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL   WORKS. 


Six  lovely  brides  all  his  pleasure  to  do, 
Or  the  bed  of  the  seventh  shall  be  husband- 
less  too.' 

Well  chanced  it  that  Adolf  the  night  when 
he  wed 

Had  confessed  and  had  sained  him  ere 
boune  to  his  bed; 

He  sprung  from  the  couch  and  his  broad- 
sword he  drew, 

And  there  the  seven  daughters  of  Urien  he 
slew. 

The  gate  of  the  castle  he  bolted  and  sealed, 
And  hung  o'er  each  arch-stone  a  crown  and 

a  shield ; 
To  the  cells  of  Saint  Dunstan  then  wended 

his  way, 
And  died  in  his  cloister  an  anchorite  gray. 

Seven  monarchs'  wealth  in  that  castle  lies 

stowed, 
The  foul  fiends  brood  o'er  them  like  raven 

and  toad. 
Whoever    shall    guesten    these   chambers 

within, 
From  curfew  till  matins,  that  treasure  shall 

win. 


But   manhood  grows    faint  as   the   world 

waxes  old ! 
There  lives  not  in  Britain  a  champion  so 

bold, 
So  dauntless  of  heart,  and  so  prudent  of 

brain, 
As  to  dare  the  adventure  that  treasure  to 

gain. 

The  waste  ridge  of  Cheviot  shall  wave  with 
the  uye, 

Before  the  rude  Scots  shall  Northumber- 
land fly, 

And  the  flint  cliffs  of  Bambro'  shall  melt 
in  the  sun, 

Before  that  adventure  be  perilled  and  won. 


xv. 

'And  is  this  my  probation?'  wild  Harold 

he  said, 
'Within   a    lone   castle    to   press    a    lone 

bed?— 
Good  even,  my  lord  bishop,  —  Saint  Cuth- 

bert  to  borrow, 
The  Castle  of  Seven  Shields  receives  me 

to-morrow.' 


Varolii  tfje  JBauntag. 


CANTO   FIFTH. 


Denmark's  sage  courtier  to  her  princely  youth, 
Granting  his  cloud  an  ousel  or  a  whale, 
Spoke,  though  unwittingly,  a  partial  truth ; 
For  Fantasy  embroiders  Nature's  veil. 
The  tints  of  ruddy  eve  or  dawning  pale. 
Of  the  swart  thunder-cloud  or  silver  haze, 
Are  but  the  ground-work  of  the  rich  detail 
Which  Fantasy  with  pencil  wild  portrays, 
Blending  what  seems  and  is  in  the  wrapt  muser's  gaze. 


Nor  are  the  stubborn  forms  of  earth  and  stone 
Less  to  the  Sorceress's  empire  given ; 
For  not  with  unsubstantial  hues  alone, 
Caught  from  the  varying  surge  of  vacant  heaven, 
From  bursting  sunbeam  or  from  flashing  levin, 
Slu-  limns  her  pictures  :  on  the  earth,  as  air, 
Arise  her  castles  and  her  car  is  driven; 
And  never  gazed  the  eye  on  scene  so  fair. 
But  of  its  boasted  charms  gave  Fancy  half  the  share. 


HAROLD    THE  DAUNTLESS. 


455 


Up  a  wild  pass  went  Harold,  bent  to  prove, 
Hugh  Meneville,  the  adventure  of  thy  lay ; 
Gunnar  pursued  his  steps  in  faith  and  love, 
Ever  companion  of  his  master's  way. 
Midward  their  path,  a  rock  of  granite  gray 
From  the  adjoining  cliff  had  made  descent,  — 
A  barren  mass  —  yet  with  her  drooping  spray 
Had  a  young  birch-tree  crowned  its  battlement, 
Twisting  her  fibrous  roots  through  cranny,  flaw,  and  rent. 

This  rock  and  tree  could  Gunnar's  thought  engage 
Till  Fancy  brought  the  tear-drop  to  his  eye, 
And  at  his  master  asked  the  timid  page, 
*  What  is  the  emblem  that  a  bard  should  spy 
In  that  rude  rock  and  its  green  canopy  ?' 
And  Harold  said,  '  Like  to  the  helmet  brave 
Of  warrior  slain  in  fight  it  seems  to  lie. 
And  these  same  drooping  boughs  do  o'er  it  wave 
Not  all  unlike  the  plume  his  lady's  favor  gave.' 

'Ah,  no! '  replied  the  page;  'the  ill-starred  love 
Of  some  poor  maid  is  in  the  emblem  shown, 
Whose  fates  are  with  some  hero's  interwove 
And  rooted  on  a  heart  to  love  unknown  : 
And  as  the  gentle  dews  of  heaven  alone 
Nourish  those  drooping  boughs,  and  as  the  scathe 
Of  the  red  lightning  rends  both  tree  and  stone, 
So  fares  it  with  her  unrequited  faith, — 
Her  sole  relief  is  tears  — her  only  refuge  death.' 


Hi. 

'  Thou  art  a  fond  fantastic  boy,' 
Harold  replied,  '  to  females  coy, 

Yet  prating  still  of  love  ; 
Even  so  amid  the  clash  of  war 
I  know  thou  lov'st  to  keep  afar, 
Though  destined  by  thy  evil  star 

With  one  like  me  to  rove, 
Whose  business  and  whose  joys  are  found 
Upon  the  bloody  battle-ground. 
Yet,  foolish  trembler  as  thou  art, 
Thou  hast  a  nook  of  my  rude  heart, 
And  thou  and  I  will  never  part ;  — 
Harold  would  wrap  the  wor\d  in  flame 
Ere  injury  on  Gunnar  came.' 

IV. 

The  grateful  page  made  no  reply, 
But  turned  to  heaven  his  gentle  eye, 
And  clasped  his  hands,  as  one  who  said, 
'  My  toils — my  wanderings  are  o'erpaid ! ' 
Then  in  a  gayer,  lighter  strain, 
Compelled  himself  to  speech  again ; 

And,  as  they  flowed  along, 
His  words  took  cadence  soft  and  slow, 
And  liquid,  like  dissolving  snow, 

They  melted  into  song. 


'  What  though  through  fields  of  carnage 

wide 
I  may  not  follow  Harold's  stride, 
Yet  who  with  faithful  Gunnar's  pride 

Lord  Harold's  feats  can  see  ? 
And  dearer  than  the  couch  of  pride 
He  loves  the  bed  of  gray  wolf's  hide, 
When  slumbering  by  Lord  Harold's  side 

In  forest,  field,  or  lea.' 

VI. 

*  Break  off ! '  said  Harold,  in  a  tone 
Where  hurry  and  surprise  were  shown, 

With  some  slight  touch  of  fear, 
«  Break  off,  we  are  not  here  alone  ; 
A  palmer  form  comes  slowly  on  ! 
By  cowl  and  staff  and  mantle  known, 

My  monitor  is  near. 
Now  mark  him,  Gunnar,  heedfully ; 
He  pauses  by  the  blighted  tree  — 
Dost  see  him,  youth  ? —  Thou  couldst  not 

see 
When  in  the  vale  of  Galilee 

I  first  beheld  his  form, 
Nor  when  we  met  that  other  while 
In  Cephalonia's  rocky  isle 


456 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL   WORKS. 


Before  the  fearful  storm,  — 
Dost  see  him  now?'  — The  page,  dis- 
traught 
With  terror,  answered,  '  I  see  naught, 

And  there  is  naught  to  see, 
Save  that  the  oak's  scathed  boughs  fling 

down 
Upon  the  path  a  shadow  brown 
That,  like  a  pilgrim's  dusky  gown, 

Waves  with  the  waving  tree.' 

VII. 

Count  Harold  gazed  upon  the  oak 
As  if  his  eyestrings  would  have  broke, 

And  then  resolvedly  said, 
'  Be  what  it  will  yon  phantom  gray  — 
Nor  heaven  nor  hell  shall  ever  say 
That  for  their  shadows  from"  his  way 

Count  Harold  turned  dismayed  : 
I  '11  speak  him,  though  his  accents  fill 
My  heart  with  that  unwonted  thrill 

Which  vulgar  minds  call  fear. 
I  will  subdue  it ! '     Forth  he  strode, 
Paused    where    the    blighted    oak-tree 

showed 
Its  sable  shadow  on  the  road, 
And,  folding  on  his  bosom  broad 

His  arms,  said,  '  Speak—  I  hear.' 

VIII. 

The  Deep  Voice  said,  '  O  wild  of  will, 
Furious  thy  purpose  to  fulfil  — 
Heart-seared  and  unrepentant  still, 
How  long,  O  Harold,  shall  thy  tread 
Disturb  the  slumbers  of  the  dead  ? 
Each  step  in  thy  wild  way  thou  makest, 
The  ashes  of  the  dead  thou  wakest ; 
And  shout  in  triumph  o'er  thy  path 
The  fiends  of  bloodshed  and  of  wrath. 
In  this  thine  hour,  yet  turn  and  hear ! 
For  life  is  brief  and  judgment  near.' 

IX. 

Then  ceased  the  Voice.  — The  Dane  re- 
plied 

In  tones  where  awe  and  inborn  pride 
I  « )t  mastery  strove,  '  In  vain  ye  chide 
The  wolf  for  ravaging  the  flock, 
Or  with  its  hardness  taunt  the  rock, — 
I  am  as  they — my  Danish  strain 
Sends  streams  of  fire  through  every  vein. 
Amid  thy  realms  of  goule  and  ghost, 
Say,  is  tne  Came  of  Eric  lost, 

A"itikind*s  the  Waster,  known 
Where  tame  or  spoil  was  to  be  won; 
Whose  galleys  ne'er  bore  off  a  shore 
Tluv  left  not  black  with  flame?  — 
I  le  was  my  site,  -    and,  sprung  of  him, 
That  rover  men  iless  and  .urirn, 
ad  tame  ? 


Part  hence  and  with  my  crimes  no  more 

upbraid  me, 
I  am  that  Waster's  son  and  am  but  what 

he  made  me.' 


x. 

The    Phantom    groaned;  — the    mountain 

shook  around, 
The  fawn  and  wild-doe  started  at  the  sound, 
The  gorse  and  fern  did  wildly  round  them 

wave, 
As  if  some  sudden  storm  the  impulse  gave. 
'  All  thou  hast  said  is  truth  —  yet  on  the 

head 
Of  that  bad  sire  let  not  the  charge  be  laid 
That  he,  like  thee,  with  unrelenting  pace 
From  grave  to  cradle  ran  the  evil  race :  — 
Relentless  in  his  avarice  and  ire, 
Churches  and  towns  he  gave  to  sword  and 

fire  ; 
Shed  blood  like  water,  wasted  every  land, 
Like  the  destroying  angel's  burning  brand  ; 
Fulfilled  whate'er  of  ill  might  be  invented, 
Yes  — all  these  things  he  did  — he  did,  but 

he  REPENTED ! 

Perchance  it  is  part  of  his  punishment  still 
That  his  offspring  pursues  his  example  of 

ill. 
But  thou,  when  thy  tempest  of  wrath  shall 

next  shake  thee, 
Gird  thy  loins  for  resistance,  my  son,  and 

awake  thee ; 
If  thou  yield'st  to  thy  fury,  how  tempted 

soever, 
The  gate  of  repentance  shall  ope  for  thee 

never ! ' 

XI. 

'  He  is  gone,'  said  Lord  Harold  and  gazed 

as  he  spoke  ; 
'  There  is  naught  on  the  path  but  the  shade 

of  the  oak. 
He  is  gone  whose   strange  presence  my 

feeling  oppressed, 
Like  the  night-hag  that  sits  on  the  slum- 

berer's  breast. 
My  heart  beats  as  thick  as  a  fugitive's  tread, 
And  cold  dews  drop  from  my  brow  and  my 

head.  — 
Ho !  Gunnar,  the  flasket  yon  almoner  gave ; 
He  said  that  three  drops  would  recall  from 

the  grave. 
For  the  first  time  Count  Harold  owns  leech- 
craft  has  power, 
Or,  his  courage  to  aid,  lacks  the  juice  of  a 

flower! ' 
The  page  gave  the  flasket,  which  Walwayn 

had  filled 
With  the  juice  of  wild  roots  that  his  heart 
had  distilled  — 


HAROLD   THE  DAUNTLESS. 


457 


So  baneful  their  influence  on  all  that  had 

breath, 
One  drop  had  been  frenzy  and  two  had  been 

death. 
Harold  took  it,  but  drank  not :  for  jubilee 

shrill 
And  music  and  clamor  were  heard  on  the 

hill, 
And  down  the  steep  pathway  o'er  stock  and 

o'er  stone 
The  train  of  a  bridal  came  blithesomely  on ; 
There  was  song,  there  was  pipe,  there  was 

timbrel,  and  still 
The  burden  was,  '  Joy  to  the  fair  Metelill ! ' 

XII. 

Harold  might  see  from  his  high  stance, 
Himself  unseen,  that  train  advance 

With  mirth  and  melody  ;  — 
On  horse  and  foot  a  mingled  throng, 
Measuring  their  steps  to  bridal  song 

And  bridal  minstrelsy ; 
And  ever  when  the  blithesome  rout 
Lent  to  the  song  their  choral  shout. 
Redoubling  echoes  rolled  about, 
While  echoing  cave  and  cliff  sent  out 

The  answering  symphony 
Of  all  those  mimic  notes  which  dwell 
In  hollow  rock  and  sounding  dell. 

XIII. 

Joy  shook  his  torch  above  the  band, 
By  many  a  various  passion  fanned  ;  — 
As  elemental  sparks  can  feed 
On  essence  pure  and  coarsest  weed. 
Gentle  or  stormy  or  refined, 
Joy  takes  the  colors  of  the  mind. 
Lightsome  and  pure  but  unrepressed, 
He  fired  the  bridegroom's  gallant  breast : 
More  feebly  strove  with  maiden  fear, 
Yet  still  joy  glimmered  through  the  tear 
On  the  bride's  blushing  cheek  that  shows 
Like  dewdrop  on  the  budding  rose  ; 
While  Wulf  stane's  gloomy  smile  declared 
The  glee  that  selfish  avarice  shared, 
And  pleased  revenge  and  malice  high 
Joy's  semblance  took  in  Jutta's  eye. 
On  dangerous  adventure  sped, 
The  witch  deemed  Harold  with  the  dead, 
For  thus  that  mornjier  demon  said  :  — 
'  If,  ere  the  set  of  sun,  be  tied 
The  knot  'twixt  bridegroom  and  his  bride, 
The  Dane  shall  have  no  power  of  ill 
O'er  William  and  o'er  Metelill.' 
And  the    pleased   witch    made   answer, 

'Then 
Must  Harold  have  passed  from  the  paths 

of  men ! 
Evil  repose  may  his  spirit  have,  — 


May  hemlock  and  mandrake  find  root  in 
his  grave,  — 

May  his  death-sleep  be  dogged  by  dreams 
of  dismay, 

And  his  waking  be  worse  at  the  answer- 
ing day ! ' 

XIV. 

Such  was  their  various  mood  of  glee 
Blent  in  one  shout  of  ecstasy. 
But  still  when  Joy  is  brimming  highest, 
Of  sorrow  and  misfortune  nighest, 
Of  Terror  with  her  ague  cheek, 
And  lurking  Danger,  sages  speak  :  — 
These  haunt  each  path,  but  chief  they  lay 
Their  snares  beside  the  primrose  way.  — 
Thus  found  that  bridal  band  their  path 
Beset  by  Harold  in  his  wrath. 
Trembling  beneath  his  maddening  mood, 
High  on  a  rock  the  giant  stood ; 
His  shout  was  like  the  doom  of  death 
Spoke  o'er  their  heads  that  passed  be- 
neath. 
His  destined  victims  might  not  spy 
The  reddening  terrors  of  his  eye, 
The  frown  of  rage  that  writhed  his  face, 
The  lip  that  foamed  like  boar's  in  chase  ; 
But  all  could  see  — and,  seeing,  all 
Bore  back  to  shun  the  threatened  fall  — 
The  fragment  which  their  giant  foe 
Rent  from  the  cliff  and  heaved  to  throw. 


Backward  they  bore  : —  yet  are  there  two 

For  battle  who  prepare  : 
No  pause  of  dread  Lord  William  knew 

Ere  his  good  blade  was  bare  ; 
And  Wulfstane  bent  his  fatal  yew, 
But  ere  the  silken  cord  he  drew, 
As  hurled  from  Hecla's  thunder  flew 

That  ruin  through  the  air ! 
Full  on  the  outlaw's  front  it  came, 
And  all  that  late  had  human  name, 
And  human  face,  and  human  frame, 
That  lived  and  moved  and  had  free  will 
To  choose  the  path  of  good  or  ill, 

Is  to  its  reckoning  gone  ; 
And  naught  of  Wulfstane  rests  behind 

Save  that  beneath  that  stone, 
Half-buried  in  the  dinted  clay, 
A  red  and  shapeless  mass  there  lay 

Of  mingled  flesh  and  bone  ! 

XVI. 

As  from  the  bosom  of  the  sky 

The  eagle  darts  amain, 
Three  bounds  from  yonder  summit  high 

Placed  Harold  on  the  plain. 
As  the  scared  wild-fowl  scream  and  fly, 

So  fled  the  bridal  train  ; 


458 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL   WORKS. 


As  'gainst  the  eagle's  peerless  might 
The  noble  falcon  dares  the  fight, 

But  dares  the  fight  in  vain, 
So    fought  the    bridegroom  ;   from   his 

hand 
The  Dane's   rude  mace  has  struck  his 

brand, 
Its  glittering  fragments  strew  the  sand, 

Its  lord  lies  on  the  plain. 
Now,  Heaven  !  take  noble  William's  part, 
And  melt  that  yet  unmelted  heart, 
Or,  ere  his  bridal  hour  depart, 

The  hapless  bridegroom 's  slain  ! 

XVII. 

Count  Harold's  frenzied  rage  is  high, 

There  is  a  death-fire  in  his  eye, 

Deep  furrows  on  his  brow  are  trenched, 

His  teeth  are  set,  his  hand  is  clenched, 

The  foam  upon  his  lip  is  white, 

His  deadly  arm  is  up  to  smite  ! 

But,  as  the  mace  aloft  he  swung, 

To  stop  the  blow  young  Gunnar  sprung, 

Around  his  master's  knees  he  clung, 

And  cried,  '  In  mercy  spare  ! 
O,  think  upon  the  words  of  fear 
Spoke  by  that  visionary  Seer, 
The  crisis  he  foretold  is  here,  — 

Grant  mercy,  —  or  despair ! ' 
This  word  suspended  Harold's  mood, 
Yet  still  with  arm  upraised  he  stood, 
And  visage  like  the  headsman's  rude 

That  pauses  for  the  sign. 
4  O  mark  thee  with  the  blessed  rood,' 
The   page    implored ;    '  Speak   word  of 

good, 
Resist  the  fiend  or  be  subdued ! ' 

He  signed  the  cross  divine  — 
Instant  his  eye  hath  human  light, 
Less  red,  less  keen,  less  fiercely  bright ; 
His  brow  relaxed  the  obdurate  frown, 
The  fatal  mace  sinks  gently  down, 

He  turns  and  strides  away ; 
Yet  oft,  like  revellers  who  leave 
Unfinished  feast,  looks  back  to  grieve, 
i  repenting  the  reprieve 

He  granted  to  his  prey. 


Yet  still  of  forbearance  one  sign  hath  he 

given, 
And  fierce  Witikind's  son  made  one  step 

towards  heaven. 


But  though  his  dreaded  footsteps  part, 
Death  is  behind  and  shakes  his  dart ; 
Lord  William  on  the  plain  is  lying, 
Beside  him  Metelill  seems  dying  !  — 
Bring  odors  —  essences  in  haste  — 
And  lo  !  a  flasket  richly  chased,  — 
But  Jutta  the  elixir  proves 
Ere  pouring  it  for  those  she  loves  — 
Then  Walwayn's  potion  was  not  wasted, 
For  when  three  drops  the  hag  had  tasted 

So  dismal  was  her  yell, 
Each  bird  of  evil  omen  woke, 
The  raven  gave  his  fatal  croak, 
And  shrieked  the  night-crow  from  the  oak, 
The  screech-owl  from  the  thicket  broke, 

And  fluttered  down  the  dell ! 
So  fearful  was  the  sound  and  stern, 
The  slumbers  of  the  full-gorged  erne 
Were  startled,  and  from  furze  and  fern 

Of  forest  and  of  fell 
The  fox  and  famished  wolf  replied  — 
For  wolves   then  prowled   the   Cheviot 

side  — 
From  mountain  head  to  mountain  head 
The   unhallowed    sounds    around   were 

sped; 
But  when  their  latest  echo  fled 
The  sorceress  on  the  ground  lay  dead. 

XIX. 

Such  was  the  scene  of  blood  and  woes 
With  which  the  bridal  morn  arose 

Of  William  and  of  Metelill ; 
But  oft,  when  dawning  'gins  to  spread, 
The  summer  morn  peeps  dim  and  red 

Above  the  eastern  hill, 
Ere,  bright  and  fair,  upon  his  road 
The  king  of  splendor  walks  abroad  ; 
So,  when  this  cloud  had  passed  away, 
Bright  was  the  noontide  of  their  day 
And  all  serene  its  setting  ray. 


HAROLD   THE  DAUNTLESS.  459 

pfaroto  tfje  ©auntless. 

CANTO   SIXTH. 


Well  do  I  hope  that  this  my  minstrel  tale 
Will  tempt  no  traveller  from  southern  fields, 
Whether  in  tilbury,  barouche,  or  mail, 
To  view  the  Castle  of  these  Seven  Proud  Shields. 
Small  confirmation  its  condition  yields 
To  Meneville's  high  lay,  —  no  towers  are  seen 
On  the  wild  heath  but  those  that  Fancy  builds, 
And,  save  a  fosse  that  tracks  the  moor  with  green, 
Is  naught  remains  to  tell  of  what  may  there  have  been. 

And  yet  grave  authors,  with  the  no  small  waste 
Of  their  grave  time,  have  dignified  the  spot 
By  theories,  to  prove  the  fortress  placed 
By  Roman  bands  to  curb  the  invading  Scot. 
Hutchinson,  Horseley,  Camden,  I  might  quote, 
But  rather  choose  the  theory  less  civil 
Of  boors,  who,  origin  of  things  forgot, 
Refer  still  to  the  origin  of  evil, 
And  for  their  master-mason  choose  that  master-fiend  the  Devil. 


Therefore,  I  say,  it  was  on  fiend-built  towers 
That  stout  Count  Harold  bent  his  wondering  gaze 
When  evening  dew  was  on  the  heather  flowers, 
And  the  last  sunbeams  made  the  mountain  blaze 
And  tinged  the  battlements  of  other  days 
With  the  bright  level  light  ere  sinking  Sown. 
Illumined  thus,  the  dauntless  Dane  surveys 
The  Seven  Proud  Shields  that  o'er  the  portal  frown, 
And  on  their  blazons  traced  high  marks  of  old  renown. 

A  wolf  North  Wales  had  on  his  armor-coat, 
And  Rhys  of  Powis-land  a  couchant  stag ; 
Strath-Clwyd's  strange  emblem  was  a  stranded  boat, 
Donald  of  Galloway's  a  trotting  nag ; 
A  corn-sheaf  gilt  was  fertile  Lodon's  brag ; 
A  dudgeon-dagger  was  by  Dunmail  worn  ; 
Northumbrian  Adolf  gave  a  sea-beat  crag 
Surmounted  by  a  cross  —  such  signs  were  borne 
Upon  these  antique  shields,  all  wasted  now  and  worn. 

in. 

These  scanned,  Count  Harold  sought  the  castle-door, 
Whose  ponderous  bolts  were  rusted  to  decay ; 
Yet  till  that  hour  adventurous  knight  forbore 
The  unobstructed  passage  to  essay. 
More  strong  than  armed  warders  in  array, 
And  obstacle  more  sure  than  bolt  or  bar, 
Sate  in  the  portal  Terror  and  Dismay, 
While  Superstition,  who  forbade  to  war 
With  foes  of  other  mould  than  mortal  clay, 
Cast  spells  across  the  gate  and  barred  the  onward  way. 


46o 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL    WORKS. 


Vain  now  those  spells ;  for  soon  with  heavy  clank 
The  feebly-fastened  gate  was  inward  pushed, 
And,  as  it  oped,  through  that  emblazoned  rank 
Of  antique  shields  the  wind  of  evening  rushed 
With  sound  most  like  a  groan  and  then  was  hushed. 
Is  none  who  on  such  spot  such  sounds  could  hear 
But  to  his  heart  the  blood  had  faster  rushed ; 
Yet  to  bold  Harold's  breast  that  throb  was  dear  — 
It  spoke  of  danger  nigh,  but  had  no  touch  of  fear. 

IV. 

Yet  Harold  and  his  page  no  signs  have  traced 
Within  the  castle  that  of  danger  showed ; 
For  still  the  halls  and  courts  were  wild  and  waste, 
As  through  their  precincts  the  adventurers  trode. 
The  seven  huge  towers  rose  stately,  tall,  and  broad, 
Each  tower  presenting  to  their  scrutiny 
A  hall  in  which  a  king  might  make  abode, 
And  fast  beside,  garnished  both  proud  and  high, 
Was  placed  a  bower  for  rest  in  which  a  king  might  lie. 

As  if  a  bridal  there  of  late  had  been, 
Decked  stood  the  table  in  each  gorgeous  hall ; 
And  yet  it  was  two  hundred  years,  I  ween, 
Since  date  of  that  unhallowed  festival. 
Flagons  and  ewers  and  standing  cups  were  all 
Of  tarnished  gold  or  silver  nothing  clear, 
With  throne  begilt  and  canopy  of  pall, 
And  tapestry  clothed  the  wall's  with  fragments  sear- 
Frail  as  the  spider's  mesh  did  that  rich  woof  appear. 


In  every  bower,  as  round  a  hearse,  was  hung 
A  dusky  crimson  curtain  o'er  the  bed, 
And  on  each  couch  in  ghastly  wise  were  flung 
The  wasted  relics  of  a  monarch  dead  ; 
Barbaric  ornaments  around  were  spread, 
Vests  twined  with  gold  and  chains  of  precious  stone, 
And  golden  circlets,  meet  for  monarch's  head; 
While  grinned,  as  if  in  scorn  amongst  them  thrown, 
The  wearer's  fleshless  skull,  alike  with  dust  bestrewn. 

For  these  were  they  who,  drunken  with  delight, 
On  pleasure's  opiate  pillow  laid  their  head, 
For  whom  the  bride's  shy  footstep,  slow  and  light, 
Was  changed  ere  morning  to  the  murderer's  tread. 
For  human  bliss  and  woe  in  the  frail  thread 
Of  human  life  are  all  so  closely  twined 
That  till  the  shears  of  Fate  the  texture  shred 
The  close  succession  cannot  be  disjoined, 
Nor  dare  we  from  one  hour  judge  that  which  comes  behind. 

VI. 

But  where  the  work  of  vengeance  had  been  done, 
In  that  seventh  chamber,  was  a  sterner  sight; 
There  of  the  witch-brides  lay  each  skeleton, 
Mill  in  the  posture  as  to  death  when  dight 
For  this  lay  prone,  by  one  blow  slain  outright ; 


HAROLD    THE  DAUNTLESS. 


461 


And  that,  as  one  who  struggled  long  in  dying ; 
One  bony  hand  held  knife,  as  if  to  smite ; 
One  bent  on  fleshless  knees,  as  mercy  crying; 
One  lay  across  the  door,  as  killed  in  act  of  flying. 

The  stern  Dane  smiled  this  charnel-house  to  see,  — 
For  his  chafed  thought  returned  to  Metelill ;  — 
And  'Well,'  he  said,  'hath  woman's  perfidy, 
Empty  as  air,  as  water  volatile, 
Been  here  avenged.  —  The  origin  of  ill 
Through  woman  rose,  the  Christian  doctrine  saith ; 
Nor  deem  I,  Gunnar,  that  thy  minstrel  skill 
Can  show  example  where  a  woman's  breath 
Hath  made  a  true-love  vow,  and  tempted  kept  her  faith.' 


VII. 

The  minstrel-boy  half  smiled,  half  sighed, 
And  his  half-filling  eyes  he  dried, 
And  said,  'The  theme  I  should  but  wrong, 
Unless  it  were  my  dying  song  — 
Our  Scalds  have  said,  in  dying  hour 
The  Northern  harp  has  treble  power  — 
Else  could  I  tell  of  woman's  faith, 
Defying  danger,  scorn,  and  death. 
Firm  was  that  faith  —  as  diamond  stone 
Pure  and  unflawed  —  her  love  unknown 
And  unrequited ;  —  firm  and  pure, 
Her  stainless  faith  could  all  endure ; 
From  clime  to  clime,  from  place  to  place, 
Through  want  and  danger  and  disgrace, 
A  wanderer's  wayward  steps  could  trace. 
All  this  she  did,  and  guerdon  none 
Required  save  that  her  burial-stone 
Should  make  at  length  the  secret  known, 
"  Thus  hath  a  faithful  woman  done."  — 
Not  in  each  breast  such  truth  is  laid, 
But  Eivir  was  a  Danish  maid.' 


VIII. 

4  Thou  art  a  wild  enthusiast,'  said 
Count  Harold,  '  for  thy  Danish  maid ; 
And  yet,  young  Gunnar,  I  will  own 
Hers  were  a  faith  to  rest  upon. 
But  Eivir  sleeps  beneath  her  stone 
And  all  resembling  her  are  gone. 
What  maid  e'er  showed  such  constancy 
In  plighted  faith,  like  thine  to  me  ? 
But  couch  thee,  boy ;  the  darksome  shade 
Falls  thickly  round,  nor  be  dismayed 

Because  the  dead  are  by. 
They  were  as  we ;  our  little  day 
O'erspent,  and  we  shall  be  as  they. 
Yet  near  me,  Gunnar,  be  thou  laid, 
Thy  couch  upon  my  mantle  made, 
That  thou  mayst  think,  should  fear  invade, 

Thy  master  slumbers  nigh.' 
Thus  couched  they  in  that  dread  abode, 
Until  the  beams  of  dawning  glowecf. 


IX. 

An  altered  man  Lord  Harold  rose, 
When  he  beheld  that  dawn  unclose  — 

There 's  trouble  in  his  eyes, 
And  traces  on  his  brow  and  cheek 
Of  mingled  awe  and  wonder  speak  : 

1  My  page,'  he  said,  '  arise ;  — 
Leave   we   this  place,  my  page.'  —  No 

more 
He  uttered  till  the  castle  door 
They  crossed  —  but  there  he  paused  and 

said, 
*  My  wildness  hath  awaked  the  dead  — 

Disturbed  the  sacred  tomb  ! 
Methought  this  night  I  stood  on  high 
Where  Hecla  roars  in  middle  sky, 
And  in  her  caverned  gulfs  could  spy 
The  central  place  of  doom; 
And  there  before  my  mortal  eye 
Souls  of  the  dead  came  flitting  by, 
Whom  fiends  with  many  a  fiendish  cry 

Bore  to  that  evil  den  ! 
My  eyes  grew  dizzy  and  my  brain 
Was  wildered,  as  the  elvish  train 
With  shriek  and  howl  dragged  on  amain 

Those  who  had  late  been  men. 


*  With  haggard  eyes  and  streaming  hair, 
Jutta  the  Sorceress  was  there, 
And  there  passed  Wulfstane  lately  slain, 
All    crushed     and     foul    with     bloody 

stain.  — 
More  had  I  seen,  but  that  uprose 
A  whirlwind  wild  and  swept  the  snows  ; 
And  with  such  sound  as  when  at  need 
A  champion  spurs  his  horse  to  speed, 
Three  armed  knights  rush  on  who  lead 
Caparisoned  a  sable  steed. 
Sable  their  harness,  and  there  came 
Through   their  closed   visors  sparks  of 

flame. 
The  first  proclaimed,  in  sounds  of  fear, 


462 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL    WORKS. 


'i  Harold  the  Dauntless,  welcome  here  !  " 
The  next  cried,  "  Jubilee  !  we  've  won 
Count  Witikind  the  Waster's  son  ! ' 
And  the  third  rider  sternly  spoke, 
"  Mount,  in  the  name  of  Zernebock !  — 
From  us,  O  Harold,  were  thy  powers,  — 
Thy  strength,  thy  dauntlessness,  are  ours ; 
Nor  think,  a  vassal  thou  of  hell, 
With  hell  can  strive."     The  fiend  spoke 

true! 
My  inmost  soul  the  summons  knew, 

As  captives  know  the  knell 
That  says  the  headsman's  sword  is  bare 
And  with  an  accent  of  despair 

Commands  them  quit  their  cell. 
I  felt  resistance  was  in  vain, 
My  foot  had  that  fell  stirrup  ta'en, 
My  hand  was  on  the  fatal  mane, 

When  to  my  rescue  sped 
That  palmer's  visionary  form, 
And  —  like  the  passing  of  a  storm  — 

The  demons  yelled  and  fled ! 


'  His  sable  cowl  flung  back  revealed 
The  features  it  before  concealed ; 

And,  Gunnar,  I  could  find 
In  him  whose  counsels  strove  to  stay 
So  oft  my  course  on  wilful  way 

My  father  Witikind  ! 
Doomed  for  his  sins  and  doomed  for  mine 
A  wanderer  upon  earth  to  pine 
Until  his  son  shall  turn  to  grace 
And  smooth  for  him  a  resting-place.  — 
Gunnar,  he  must  not  haunt  in  vain 
This  world  of  wretchedness  and  pain: 
I  '11  tame  my  wilful  heart  to  live 
In  peace  — to  pity  and  forgive  — 
And  thou,  for  so  the  Vision  said. 
Must  in  thy  Lord's  repentance  aid. 
Thy  mother  was  a  prophetess, 
He  said,  who  by  her  skill  could  guess 
How  close  the  fatal  textures  join 
Which  knit  thy  thread  of  life  with  mine; 
Hun  dark  he  hinted  of  disguise 
She  framed  to  cheat  too  curious  eyes 
That  not  a  moment  might  divide 
Thy  fated  footsteps  from  my  side. 
Methought  while  thus  my  sire  did  teach 
I  caught  the  meaning  of  his  speech, 
Yet  seems  its  purport  doubtful  now.' 
His    hand    then   sought    his    thoughtful 

brow  — 
Then  first  he  marked,  that  in  the  tower 
flove  was  left  at  waking  hour. 

XII. 
Trembling  at  first  and  deadly  pale, 
Had  Gunnar  heard  the  visioned  tale; 


But  when  he  learned  the  dubious  close 
He  blushed  like  any  opening  rose, 
And,  glad  to  hide  his  tell-tale  cheek, 
Hied  back  that  glove  of  mail  to  seek ; 
When  soon  a  shriek  of  deadly  dread 
Summoned  his  master  to  his  aid. 


XIII. 

What  sees  Count  Harold  in  that  bower 

So  late  his  resting-place  ?  — 
The  semblance  of  the  Evil  Power, 

Adored  by  all  his  race  ! 
Odin  in  living  form  stood  there, 
His  cloak  the  spoils  of  Polar  bear; 
For  plumy  crest  a  meteor  shed 
Its  gloomy  radiance  o'er  his  head, 
Yet  veiled  its  haggard  majesty 
To  the  wild  lightnings  of  his  eye. 
Such  height  was  his  as  when  in  stone 
O'er  Upsal's  giant  altar  shown : 

So  flowed  his  hoary  beard  ; 
Such  was  his  lance  of  mountain-pine, 
So  did  his  sevenfold  buckler  shine  ; 

But  when  his  voice  he  reared, 
Deep  without  harshness,  slow  and  strong. 
The  powerful  accents  rolled  along, 
And  while  he  spoke  his  hand  was  laid 
On  captive  Gunnar's  shrinking  head. 

XIV. 

1  Harold,'  he  said,  '  what  rage  is  thine 
To  quit  the  worship  of  thy  line, 

To  leave  thy  Warrior-God  ? — 
With  me  is  glory  or  disgrace, 
Mine  is  the  onset  and  the  chase, 
Embattled  hosts  before  my  face 

Are  withered  by  a  nod. 
Wilt  thou  then  forfeit  that  high  seat 
Deserved  by  many  a  dauntless  feat 
Among  the  heroes  of  thy  line, 
Eric  and  fiery  Thorarine  ?  — 
Thou  wilt  not.     Only  I  can  give 
The  joys  for  which  the  valiant  live, 
Victory  and  vengeance  —  only  I 
Can  give  the  joys  for  which  they  die, 
The  immortal  tilt  —  the  banquet  full, 
The   brimming   draught  from  foeman's 

skull. 
Mine  art  thou,  witness  this  thy  glove, 
The  faithful  pledge  of  vassal's  love. 

xv. 

*  Tempter,'  said  Harold,  firm  of  heart, 

*  I  charge  thee,  hence  !  whate'er  thou  art, 
I  do  defy  thee  — and  resist 

The  kindling  frenzy  of  my  breast, 
Waked  by  thy  words  ;  and  of  my  mail 
Nor  glove  nor  buckler,  splent  nor  nail, 


HAROLD    THE  DAUNTLESS. 


463 


Shall  rest  with  thee  —  that  youth  release, 
And,  God  or  Demon,  part  in  peace.'  — 
'Eivir,'  the  Shape  replied,  'is  mine, 
Marked  in  the  birth-hour  with  my  sign. 
Think'st  thou  that  priest  with  drops  of 

spray 
Could  wash  that  blood-red  mark  away  ? 
Or  that  a  borrowed  sex  and  name 
Can  abrogate  a  Godhead's  claim  ?  % 
Thrilled    this    strange    speech    through 

Harold's  brain, 
He  clenched  his  teeth  in  high  disdain, 
For  not  his  new-born  faith  subdued 
Some  tokens  of  his  ancient  mood.  — 
1  Now,  by  the  hope  so  lately  given 
Of  better  trust  and  purer  heaven, 
I  will  assail  thee,  fiend  ! '  —  Then  rose 
His  mace,  and  with  a  storm  of  blows 
The  mortal  and  the  demon  close. 

XVI. 

Smoke  rolled  above,  fire  flashed  around, 
Darkened  the  sky  and  shook  the  ground  ; 

But  not  the  artillery  of  hell, 
The  bickering  lightning,  nor  the  rock 
Of  turrets  to  the  earthquake's  shock, 

Could  Harold's  courage  quell. 
Sternly  the  Dane  his  purpose  kept, 
And  blows  on  blows  resistless  heaped, 

Till  quailed  that  demon  form, 
And  —  for  his  power  to  hurt  or  kill 
Was  bounded  by  a  higher  will  — 

Evanished  in  a  storm. 
Nor  paused  the  Champion  of  the  North, 
But  raised  and  bore  his  Eivir  forth 
From  that  wild  scene  of  fiendish  strife 
To  light,  to  liberty,  and  life  ! 

XVII. 

He  placed  her  en  a  bank  of  moss, 

A  silver  runnel  bubbled  by, 
And  new-born  thoughts  his  soul  engross, 
And  tremors  yet  unknown  across 

His  stubborn  sinews  fly, 
The  while  with  timid  hand  the  dew 
Upon  her  brow  and  neck  he  threw, 
And  marked  how  life  with  rosy  hue 


On  her  pale  cheek  revived  anew 

And  glimmered  in  her  eye. 
Inly  he  said,  '  That  silken  tress  — 
What  blindness  mine  that  could  not  guess  ! 
Or  how  could  page's  rugged  dress 

That  bosom's  pride  belie  ? 
O,  dull  of  heart,  through  wild  and  wave 
In  search  of  blood  and  death  to  rave, 

With  such  a  partner  nigh  ! ' 

XVIII. 

Then  in  the  mirrored  pool  he  peered, 
Blamed  his  rough  locks  and  shaggy  beard, 
The  stains  of  recent  conflict  cleared,  — 

And  thus  the  Champion  proved 
That  he  fears  now  who  never  feared, 

And  loves  who  never  loved. 
And  Eivir  —  life  is  on  her  cheek 
And  yet  she  will  not  move  or  speak, 

Nor  will  her  eyelid  fully  ope  ; 
Perchance  it  loves,  that  half-shut  eye, 
Through  its  long  fringe,  reserved  and  shy, 
Affection's  opening  dawn  to  spy ; 
And  the  deep  blush,  which  bids  its  dye 
O'er  cheek  and  brow  and  bosom  fly, 

Speaks  shamefacedness  and  hope. 

XIX. 

But  vainly  seems  the  Dane  to  seek 

For  terms  his  new-born  love  to  speak,  — 

For  words,  save  those  of  wrath  and  wrong, 

Till  now  were  strangers  to  his  tongue  ; 

So,  when  he  raised  the  blushing  maid, 

In  blunt  and  honest  terms  he  said  — 

'T  were  well  that  maids,  when  lovers  woo, 

Heard  none  more  soft,  were  all  as  true  — 

•  Eivir  !  since  thou  for  many  a  day 

Hast  followed  Harold's  wayward  way, 

It  is  but  meet  that  in  the  line 

Of  after-life  I  follow  thine. 

To-morrow  is  Saint  Cuthbert's  tide, 

And  we  will  grace  his  altar's  side, 

A  Christian  knight  and  ChVistian  bride ; 

And  of  Witikind's  son  shall  the  marvel  be 
said 

That  on  the  same  morn  he  was  christened 
and  wed.' 


464 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL    WORKS. 


Pfarolti  tfje  ©aunties*. 


CONCLUSION. 

And  now,  Ennui,  what  ails  thee.,  weary  maid  ? 
And  why  these  listless  looks  of  yawning  sorrow  ? 
No  need  to  turn  the  page  as  if  't  were  lead, 
Or  fling  aside  the  volume  till  to-morrow.  — 
Be  cheered  —  't  is  ended  —  and  I  will  not  borrow, 
To  try  thy  patience  more,  one  anecdote 
From  Bartholine  or  Perinskiold  or  Snorro. 
Then  pardon  thou  thy  minstrel,  who  hath  wrote 
A  tale  six  cantos  long,  yet  scorned  to  add  a  note. 


Bailatjg,  translate*  or  Sfmttateli, 

from  t^e  German,  <£tc- 


militant  anti  J^elen. 

IMITATED    FROM    THE    "  LENORE  "    OF    BURGER. 

From  heavy  dreams  fair  Helen  rose, 

And' eyed  the  dawning  red: 
1  Alas,  my  love,  thou  tarriest  long  ! 

O  art  thou  false  or  dead  ? ' 

With  gallant  Frederick's  princely  power 
He  sought  the  bold  Crusade, 

But  not  a  word  from  Judah's  wars 
Told  Helen  how  he  sped. 

With  Paynim  and  with  Saracen 
At  length  a  truce  was  made, 

And  every  knight  returned  to  dry 
The  tears  his  love  had  shed. 

Our  gallant  host  was  homeward  bound 

With  many  a  song  of  joy  ; 
Green  waved  the  laurel  in  each  plume, 

The  badge  of  victory. 

And  old  and  young,  and  sire  and  son, 
To  meet  them  crowd  the  way, 

With  shouts  and  mirth  and  melody, 
The  debt  of  love  to  pay. 

Full  many  a  maid  her  true-love  met, 

And  sobbed  in  his  embrace, 
And  fluttering  joy  in  tears  and  smiles 

Arrayed  full  many  a  face. 

Nor  joy  nor  smile  for  Helen  sad, 
She  sought  the  host  in  vain; 

For  none  could  tell  her  William's  fate, 
If  faithless  or  if  slain. 

The  martial  band  is  past  and  gone  ; 

She  rends  her  raven  hair, 
And  in  distraction's  bitter  mood 

She  weeps  with  wild  despair. 


1  O,  rise,  my  child,'  her  mother  said, 

'  Nor  sorrow  thus  in  vain  ; 
A  perjured  lover's  fleeting  heart 

No  tears  recall  again.' 

'  O  mother,  what  is  gone  is  gone, 

What 's  lost  forever  lorn : 
Death,  death  alone  can  comfort  me  ; 

O  had  I  ne'er  been  born ! 

'  O,  break,  my  heart,  O,  break  at  once  \ 
Drink  my  life-blood,  Despair  ! 

No  joy  remains  on  earth  for  me, 
For  me  in  heaven  no  share.' 

1 0,  enter  not  in  judgment,  Lord  ! ' 

The  pious  mother  prays  ; 
'  Impute  not  guilt  to  thy  frail  child  ! 

She  knows  not  what  she  says. 

'  O,  say  thy  pater-noster,  child  ! 

O,  turn  to  God  and  grace ! 
His  will,  that  turned  thy  bliss  to  bale, 

Can  change  thy  bale  to  bliss.' 

1  O  mother,  mother,  what  is  bliss  ? 

O  mother,  what  is  bale  ? 
My  William's  love  was  heaven  on  earth, 

Without  it  earth  is  hell. 

1  Why  should  I  pray  to  ruthless  Heaven, 
Since  my  loved  William  's  slain  ? 

I  only  prayed  for  William's  sake, 
And  all  my  prayers  were  vain.' 

1 0,  take  the  sacrament,  my  child, 
And  check  these  tears  that  flow  ; 

By  resignation's  humble  prayer, 
O,  hallowed  be  thy  woe  ! ' 

1  No  sacrament  can  quench  this  fire, 
Or  slake  this  scorching  pain ; 

No  sacrament  can  bid  the  dead 
Arise  and  live  again. 


468 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL   WORKS. 


4  O,  break,  my  heart,  O,  break  at  once  ! 

Be  thou  my  god,  Despair  ! 
Heaven's  heaviest  blow  has  fallen  on  me, 

And  vain  each  fruitless  prayer.' 

-  O,  enter  not  in  judgment,  Lord, 

With  thy  frail  child  of  clay  ! 
She  knows  not  what  her  tongue  has  spoke  : 

Impute  it  not,  I  pray  ! 

4  Forbear,  my  child,  this  desperate  woe, 

And  turn  to  God  and  grace ; 
Well  can  devotion's  heavenly  glow 

Convert  thy  bale  to  bliss.' 

4  O  mother,  mother,  what  is  bliss  ? 

0  mother,  what  is  bale  ? 

Without  my  William  what  were  heaven, 
Or  with  him  what  were  hell  ? ' 

Wild  she  arraigns  the  eternal  doom, 

Upbraids  each  sacred  power, 
Till,  spent,  she  sought  her  silent  room, 

All  in  the  lonely  tower. 

She  beat  her  breast,  she  wrung  her  hands, 

Till  sun  and  day  were  o'er, 
And  through  the  glimmering  lattice  shone 

The  twinkling  of  the  star. 

Then,  crash  !  the  heavy  drawbridge  fell 

That  o'er  the  moat  was  hung ; 
And,  clatter  !  clatter  !  on  its  boards 

The  hoof  of  courser  rung. 

The  clank  of  echoing  steel  was  heard 

As  off  the  rider  bounded; 
And  slowly  on  the  winding  stair 

A  heavy  footstep  sounded. 

And  hark  !  and  hark  !  a  knock  —  tap  !  tap ! 

A  rustling  stifled  noise  ;  — 
Door-latch  and  tinkling  staples  ring;  — 

At  length  a  whispering  voice. 

*  Awake,  awake,  arise,  my  love  ! 

How,  Helen,  dost  thou  fare? 

t  thou,  or  sleep'st?  laugh 'st  thou,  or 

treep'tt? 
Hast  thought  on  me,  my  fair  ?  ' 

•  My  bve  !  my  love !  —  so  late  by  night !  — 

1  waked.  I  wept  for  thee  : 

Much  have  I  home  since  dawn  of  morn  ; 
Where,  William,  COllIdst  thou  be?' 

4 We  saddle  late— from  Hungary 

I  rode  since  darkness  fell; 
And  to  its  bourne  we  both  return 

Before  the  matin-bell.1 


40,  rest  this  night  within  my  arms, 
And  warm  thee  in  their  fold  ! 

Chill   howls   through   hawthorn   bush 
wind :  — 
My  love  is  deadly  cold.' 


the 


4  Let  the  wind  howl  through  hawthorn  bush  ! 

This  night  we  must  away  ; 
The  steed  is  wight,  the  spur  is  bright ; 

I  cannot  stay  till  day. 

4  Busk,  busk,  and  boune  !  Thou  mount'st 
behind 

Upon  my  black  barb  steed  : 
O'er  stock  and  stile,  a  hundred  miles, 

We  haste  to  bridal  bed.' 

4  To-night  —  to-night  a  hundred  miles  !  — 

O  dearest  William,  stay  ! 
The  bell  strikes  twelve  —  dark,  dismal  hour! 

O,  wait,  my  love,  till  day ! ' 

4  Look  here,  look  here  —  the  moon  shines 
clear  — 

Full  fast  I  ween  we  ride ; 
Mount  and  away  !  for  ere  the  day 

We  reach  our  bridal  bed. 

4  The  black  barb  snorts,  the  bridle  rings  ; 

Haste,  busk,  and  boune,  and  seat  thee  ! 
The  feast  is  made,  the  chamber  spread, 

The  bridal  guests  await  thee.' 

Strong    love    prevailed :    she    busks,    she 
bounes, 

She  mounts  the  barb  behind, 
And  round  her  darling  William's  waist 

Her  lily  arms  she  twined. 

And,  hurry !  hurry !  off  they  rode, 

As  fast  as  fast  might  be ; 
Spurned  from  the  courser's  thundering  heels 

The  flashing  pebbles  flee. 

And  on  the  right  and  on  the  left, 

Ere  they  could  snatch  a  vjew, 
Fast,  fast  each  mountain,  mead,  and  plain, 

And  cot  and  castle  flew. 

1  Sit  fast  —  dost  fear  ?  —  The  moon  shines 
clear  — 

Fleet  goes  my  barb  —  keep  hold  ! 
Fear'st  thou  ? '  — '  O  no  ! '  she  faintly  said ; 

'  But  why  so  stern  and  cold  ? 

'  What  yonder  rings  ?  what  yonder  sings  ? 

Why  shrieks  the  owlet  gray  ? ' 
*  'T  is  death-bells'  clang,  't  is  funeral  song, 

The  body  to  the  clay. 


BALLADS  FROM   THE   GERMAN. 


469 


1  With  song  and  clang  at  morrow's  dawn 

Ye  may  inter  the  dead  : 
To-night  I  ride  with  my  young  bride 

To  deck  our  bridal  bed. 

1  Come  with  thy  choir,  thou  coffined  guest, 

To  swell  our  nuptial  song  ! 
Come,  priest,  to  bless  our  marriage  feast ! 

Come  all,  come  all  along  ! ' 

Ceased  clang  and  song ;   down  sunk  the 
bier; 

The  shrouded  corpse  arose  : 
And  hurry  !  hurry !  all  the  train 

The  thundering  steed  pursues. 

And  forward  !  forward  !  on  they  go  ; 

High  snorts  the  straining  steed; 
Thick  pants  the  rider's  laboring  breath, 

As  headlong  on  they  speed. 

*  O  William,  why  this  savage  haste  ? 

And  where  thy  bridal  bed  ?' 

*  'T  is  distant  far,  low,  damp,  and  chill, 

And  narrow,  trustless  maid.' 

'  No  room  for  me  ?  '  —  '  Enough  for  both  ;  — 
Speed,  speed,  my  barb,  thy  course  ! ' 

O'er  thundering  bridge,  through  boiling 
surge, 
He  drove  the  furious  horse. 

Tramp  !  tramp  !  along  the  land  they  rode, 
Splash  !  splash  !  along  the  sea ; 

The  scourge  is  wight,  the  spur  is  bright, 
The  flashing  pebbles  flee. 

Fled  past  on  right  and  left  how  fast 
Each  forest,  grove,  and  bower ! 

On  right  and  left  fled  past  how  fast 
Each  city,  town,  and  tower  ! 

*  Dost  fear  ?  dost  fear  ?  The  moon  shines 

clear, 
Dost  fear  to  ride  with  me  ?  — 
Hurrah  !  hurrah  !  the  dead  can  ride  ! '  — 
'  O  William,  let  them  be  !  — 

'  See  there,  see  there  !    What  yonder  swings 
And  creaks  mid  whistling  rain  ?  *  — 

'  Gibbet  and  steel,  the  accursed  wheel ; 
A  murderer  in  his  chain.  — 

'  Hollo !  thou  felon,  follow  here  : 

To  bridal  bed  we  ride  ; 
And  thou  shalt  france  a  fetter  dance 

Before  me  and  my  bride.' 

And,  hurry  !  hurry  !  clash,  clash,  clash  ! 

The  wasted  form  descends  ; 
And  fleet  as  wind  through  hazel  bush 

The  wild  career  attends. 


Tramp  !  tramp  !  along  the  land  they  rode, 
Splash  !  splash  !  along  the  sea  ; 

The  scourge  is  red,  the  spur  drops  blood, 
The  flashing  pebbles  flee. 

How  fled  what  moonshine  faintly  showed ! 

How  fled  what  darkness  hid  ! 
How  fled  the  earth  beneath  their  feet, 

The  heaven  above  their  head  ! 

'  Dost  fear  ?  dost  fear  ?  The  moon  shines 
clear, 

And  well  the  dead  can  ride ; 
Dost  faithful  Helen  fear  for  them  ? '  — 

'  O  leave  in  peace  the  dead  ! '  — 

'  Barb  !  Barb  !  methinks  I  hear  the  cock  : 

The  sand  will  soon  be  run  : 
Barb  !  Barb  !  I  smell  the  morning  air  ; 

The  race  is  well-nigh  done.' 

Tramp  !  tramp  !  along  the  land  they  rode, 
Splash  !  splash  !  along  the  sea  ; 

The  scourge  is  red,  the  spur  drops  blood, 
The  flashing  pebbles  flee. 

'  Hurrah  !  hurrah  !  well  ride  the  dead  ; 

The  bride,  the  bride  is  come ; 
And  soon  we  reach  the  bridal  bed, 

For,  Helen,  here  's  my  home.' 

Reluctant  on  its  rusty  hinge 

Revolved  an  iron  door, 
And  by  the  pale  moon's  setting  beam 

Were  seen  a  church  and  tower. 

With  many  a  shriek  and  cry  whiz  round 
The  birds  of  midnight  scared ; 

And  rustling  like  autumnal  leaves 
Unhallowed  ghosts  were  heard. 

O'er  many  a  tomb  and  tombstone  pale 

He  spurred  the  fiery  horse, 
Till  sudden  at  an  open  grave 

He  checked  the  wondrous  course. 

The  falling  gauntlet  quits  the  rein, 
Down  drops  the  casque  of  steel, 

The  cuirass  leaves  his  shrinking  side, 
The  spur  his  gory  heel. 

The  eyes  desert  the  naked  skull, 
The  mouldering  flesh  the  bone, 

Till  Helen's  lily  arms  entwine 
A  ghastly  skeleton. 

The  furious  barb  snorts  fire  and  foam. 

And  with  a  fearful  bound 
Dissolves  at  once  in  empty  air, 

And  leaves  her  on  the  ground. 


4/0 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL   WORKS. 


Half  seen  by  fits,  by  fits  half  heard, 

Pale  spectres  flit  along, 
Wheel  round  the  maid  in  dismal  dance, 

And  howl  the  funeral  song ; 


E'en  when  the  heart's  with  anguish  cleft, 


Revere  the  doom  of  Heaven, 
Her  soul  is  from  her  body  reft ; 
Her  spirit  be  forgiven  ! ' 


Cfje  OTtlti  Jifunteman. 

IMITATED  FROM  BURGER'S  "  WILDE  JAGER." 

The  Wildgrave  winds  his  bugle-horn, 
To  horse,  to  horse  !  halloo,  halloo  ! 

His  fiery  courser  snuffs  the  morn, 
And  thronging  serfs  their  lord  pursue. 

The  eager  pack  from  couples  freed 

Dash  through  the  bush,  the  brier,  the 
brake ; 

While  answering  hound  and  horn  and  steed 
The  mountain  echoes  startling  wake. 

The  beams  of  God's  own  hallowed  day 
Had  painted  yonder  spire  with  gold, 

And,  calling  sinful  man  to  pray, 

Loud,  long,  and  deep  the  bell  had  tolled  ; 

But  still  the  Wildgrave  onward  rides ; 

Halloo,  halloo  !  and,  hark  again  ! 
When,  spurring  from  opposing  sides, 

Two  stranger  horsemen  join  the  train. 

Who  was  each  stranger,  left  and  right, 
Well  may  I  guess,  but  dare  not  tell ; 

I  he  right-hand  steed  was  silver  white, 
The  left  the  swarthy  hue  of  hell. 

right-hand  horseman,  voung  and  fair, 
His  smile  was  like  the  morn  of  May; 
The  left  from  eye  of  tawny  glare 
Shot  midnight  lightning's  lurid  ray. 

He  waved  his  huntsman's  cap  on  high, 
<  Wed,  •  Welcome,  welcome,  noble  lord  ! 

\\  hat  sport  <  an  earth,  or  sea,  or  sky, 
To  match  the  princely  (hase,  afford  ?' 

e  thy  load  bugle's  changing  knell,' 
(  ried  the  fair  youth  with  silver  voice- 
•  And  for  devotion's  choral  -well 

bange  tin-  rude  unhallowed  noise. 


1  To-day  the  ill-omened  chase  forbear, 
Yon  bell  yet  summons  to  the  fane ; 

To-day  the  Warning  Spirit  hear, 
To-morrow  thou  mayst  mourn  in  vain.' 

1  Away,  and  sweep  the  glades  along ! ' 
The  sable  hunter  hoarse  replies  ; 

'  To  muttering  monks  leave  matin-song, 
And  bells  and  books  and  mysteries.' 

The  Wildgrave  spurred  his  ardent  steed. 

And,  launching  forward  with  a  bound, 
'  Who,  for  thy  drowsy  priestlike  rede, 

Would  leave  the  jovial  horn  and  hound  ? 

'  Hence,  if  our  manly  sport  offend  ! 

With  pious  fools  go  chant  and  pray :  — 
Well    hast   thou    spoke,    my   dark-browed 
friend ; 

Halloo,  halloo  !  and  hark  away  ! ' 

The  Wildgrave  spurred  his  courser  light, 
O'er  moss  and  moor,  o'er  holt  and  hill ; 

And  on  the  left  and  on  the  right, 

Each  stranger  horseman  followed  still. 

Up  springs  from  yonder  tangled  thorn 
A  stag  more  white  than  mountain  snow ; 

And  louder  rung  the  Wildgrave 's  horn, 
'  Hark  forward,  forward  !  holla,  ho ! ' 

A  heedless  wretch  has  crossed  the  way ; 

He  gasps  the  thundering  hoofs  below  ;  — 
But  live  who  can,  or  die  who  may, 

Still,  <  Forward,  forward  ! '  on  they  go. 

See,  where  yon  simple  fences  meet, 
A  field  with  autumn's  blessings  crowned ; 

See,  prostrate  at  the  Wildgrave's  feet, 
A  husbandman  with  toil  embrowned  : 

'  O  mercy,  mercy,  noble  lord  ! 

Spare  the  poor's  pittance,'  was  his  cry, 
Earned  by  the  sweat  these  brows  have 
poured 
In  scorching  hour  of  fierce  July.' 

Ea^?eSit  ?e  riSht-hand  stranger  pleads, 
I  he  left  still  cheering  to  the  prey ; 

The  impetuous  Earl  no  warning  heeds, 
But  furious  holds  the  onward  way. 

'  Away,  thou  hound  so  basely  born, 

Or  dread  the  scourge's  echoing  blow  ! ' 
Then  loudly  rung  his  buglS-horn; 
Hark  forward,  forward !  holla,  ho ! ' 

So  said,  so  done :  —  A  single  bound 
Uears  the  poor  laborer's  humble  pale ; 

Wild  follows  man  and  horse  and  hound, 
Like  dark  December's  stormy  gale. 


BALLADS  FROM   THE   GERMAN. 


471 


And  man  and  horse,  and  hound  and  horn, 
Destructive  sweep  the  field  along; 

While,  joying  o'er  the  wasted  corn, 

Fell  Famine  marks  the  maddening  throng. 

Again  uproused  the  timorous  prey 

Scours  moss  and  moor,  and  holt  and  hill ; 

Hard  run,  he  feels  his  strength  decay, 
And  trusts  for  life  his  simple  skill. 

Too  dangerous  solitude  appeared ; 

He  seeks  the  shelter  of  the  crowd ; 
Amid  the  flock's  domestic  herd 

His  harmless  head  he  hopes  to  shroud. 

O'er  moss  and  moor,  and  holt  and  hill, 
His  track  the  steady  blood-hounds  trace  ; 

O'er  moss  and  moor,  unwearied  still, 
The  furious  Earl  pursues  the  chase. 

Full  lowly  did  the  herdsman  fall: 
'  O  spare,  thou  noble  baron,  spare 

These  herds,  a  widow's  little  all ; 

These  flocks,  an  orphan's  fleecy  care  ! ' 

Earnest  the  right-hand  stranger  pleads, 
The  left  still  cheering  to  the  prey ; 

The  Earl  nor  prayer  nor  pity  heeds, 
But  furious  keeps  the  onward  way. 

*  Unmannered  dog !     To  stop  my  sport 
Vain  were  thy  cant  and  beggar  whine, 

Though  human  spirits  of  thy  sort 
Were  tenants  of  these  carrion  kine  ! ' 

Again  he  winds  his  bugle-horn, 

'  Hark  forward,  forward,  holla,  ho ! ' 

And  through  the  herd  in  ruthless  scorn 
He  cheers  his  furious  hounds  to  go. 

In  heaps  the  throttled  victims  fall; 

Down  sinks  their  mangled  herdsman  near ; 
The  murderous  cries  the  stag  appall,  — 

Again  he  starts,  new-nerved  by  fear. 

With  blood  besmeared  and  white  with  foam, 
While  big  the  tears  of  anguish  pour, 

He  seeks  amid  the  forest's  gloom 
The  humble  hermit's  hallowed  bower. 

But  man  and  horse,  and  horn  and  hound, 

Fast  rattling  on  his  traces  go  ; 
The  sacred  chapel  rung  around 

With,  '  Hark  away  !  and,  holla,  ho  ! ' 

All  mild,  amid  the  rout  profane, 
The  holy  hermit  poured  his  prayer; 

1  Forbear  with  blood  God's  house  to  stain ; 
Revere  His  altar  and  forbear ! 


'  The  meanest  brute  has  rights  to  plead, 
Which,  wronged  by  cruelty  or  pride, 

Draw  vengeance  on  the  ruthless  head  :  — 
Be  warned  at  length  and  turn  aside.' 

Still  the  fair  horseman  anxious  pleads  ; 

The  black,   wild   whooping,   points   the 
prey:  — 
Alas  !  the  Earl  no  warning  heeds, 

But  frantic  keeps  the  forward  way. 

'  Holy  or  not,  or  right  or  wrong, 
Thy  altar  and  its  rites  I  spurn ; 

Not  sainted  martyrs'  sacred  song, 

Not  God  himself  shall  make  me  turn ! ' 

He  spurs  his  horse,  he  winds  his  horn, 
1  Hark  forward,  forward,  holla,  ho  ! ' 

But  off,  on  whirlwind's  pinions  borne, 
The  stag,  the  hut,  the  hermit,  go. 

And  horse  and  man,  and  horn  and  hound, 
And  clamor  of  the  chase,  was  gone ; 

For  hoofs  and  howls  and  bugle-sound, 
A  deadly  silence  reigned  alone. 

Wild  gazed  the  affrighted  Earl  around ; 

He  strove  in  vain  to  wake  his  horn, 
In  vain  to  call ;  for  not  a  sound 

Could  from  his  anxious  lips  be  borne. 

He  listens  for  his  trusty  hounds, 
No  distant  baying  reached  his  ears  ; 

His  courser,  rooted  to  the  ground, 
The  quickening  spur  unmindful  bears. 

Still  dark  and  darker  frown  the  shades, 
Dark  as  the  darkness  of  the  grave ; 

And  not  a  sound  the  still  invades, 
Save  what  a  distant  torrent  gave. 

High  o'er  the  sinner's  humbled  head 
At  length  the  solemn  silence  broke  ; 

And  from  a  cloud  of  swarthy  red 
The  awful  voice  of  thunder  spoke. 

'  Oppressor  of  creation  fair ! 

Apostate  Spirits'  hardened  tool ! 
Scorner  of  God  !     Scourge  of  the  poor  ! 

The  measure  of  thy  cup  is  full. 

1  Be  chased  forever  through  the  wood, 
Forever  roam  the  affrighted  wild  ; 

And  let  thy  fate  instruct  the  proud, 
God's  meanest  creature  is  His  child.' 

'T  was   hushed  :  —  One    flash    of   sombre 
glare 

With  yellow  tinged  the  forests  brown  5 
Uprose  the  Wildgrave's  bristling  hair, 

And  horror  chilled  each  nerve  and  bone. 


4/2 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Cold  poured  the  sweat  in  freezing  rill ; 

A  rising  wind  began  to  sing, 
And  louder,  louder,  louder  still, 

Brought  storm  and  tempest  on  its  wing. 

Earth  heard  the^call;  —  her  entrails  rend  ; 

From  yawning  rifts,  with  many  a  yell, 
Mixed  with  sulphureous  flames,  ascend 

The  misbegotten  dogs  of  hell. 

What  ghastly  huntsman  next  arose 
Well  may  I  guess,  but  dare  not  tell ; 

His  eye  like  midnight  lightning  glows, 
His  steed  .the  swarthy  hue  of  hell. 

The  Wildgrave  flies  o'er  bush  and  thorn 
With  many  a  shriek  of  helpless  woe ; 

Behind  him  hound  and  horse  and  horn, 
And,  '  Hark  away,  and  holla,  ho  ! ' 

With  wild  despair's  reverted  eye, 

Close,  close  behind,  he  marks  the  throng, 

With  bloody  fangs  and  eager  cry ; 
In  frantic  fear  he  scours  along. — 

Still,  still  shall  last  the  dreadful  chase 
Till  time  itself  shall  have  an  end ; 

By  day  they  scour  earth's  caverned  space, 
At  midnight's  witching  hour  ascend. 

This  is  the  horn  and  hound  and  horse 
That  oft  the  lated  peasant  hears ; 

Appalled  he  signs  the  frequent  cross, 
When  the  wild  din  invades  his  ears. 

The  wakeful  priest  oft  drops  a  tear 
For  human  pride,  for  human  woe, 

When  at  his  midnight  mass  he  hears 
The  infernal  cry  of  '  Holla,  ho  ! ' 


8H)e  jFire*l£mg. 


The  blessings  of  the  evil  Genii,  which  are  curses,  were 
upon  him.  —Eastern  Tale. 

BOLD  knights  and  fair  dames,  to  my  harp 

give  an  ear, 
Of  love  and  of  war  and  of  wonder  to  hear; 
And   you  haply  may  sigh  in  the  midst  of 

your  glee 
At  the  tale  of  Count  Albert  and  fair  Rosalie. 

O,  see  you  that  castle,  so  strong  and  so 

high  ? 
And  see  you  that  lady,  the  tear  in  her  eye  ? 


And  see  you  that  palmer  from  Palestine's 

land, 
The  shell  on  his  hat  and  the  staff  in  his 

hand  ?  — 

'  Now,  palmer,  gray  palmer,  O,  tell  unto  me, 
What  news  bring  you  home  from  the  Holy 

Countrie  ? 
And  how  goes   the   warfare   by  Galilee's 

strand  ? 
And  how  fare  our  nobles,  the  flower  of  the 

land  ? ' 

'  O,  well  goes  the  warfare  by  Galilee's  wave, 
For  Gilead  and  Nablous  and  Ramah  we 

have ; 
And  well  fare  our  nobles  by  Mount  Lebanon, 
For  the  heathen  have  lost  and  the  Christians 

have  won.' 

A  fair  chain  of  gold  mid  her  ringlets  there 

hung ; 
O'er  the  palmer's  gray  locks  the  fair  chain 

has  she  flung: 
'  O  palmer,  gray  palmer,  this  chain  be  thy 

fee 
For  the  news  thou  hast  brought  from  the 

Holy  Countrie. 

'And,  palmer,  good  palmer,  by  Galilee's 
wave,  . 

O,  saw  ye  Count  Albert,  the  gentle  and 
brave  ? 

When  the  Crescent  went  back  and  the  Red- 
cross  rushed  on, 

O,  saw  ye  him  foremost  on  Mount  Lebanon  ? ' 

'  O  lady,  fair  lady,  the  tree  green  it  grows  ; 
O  lady,  fair  lady,  the  stream  pure  it  flows ; 
Your  castle  stands  strong  and  your  hopes 

soar  on  high  ; 
But,  lady,  fair  lady,  all  blossoms  to  die. 

'  The  green  boughs  they  wither,  the  thun- 
derbolt falls, 

It  leaves  of  your  castle  but  levin-scorched 
walls  ; 

The  pure  stream  runs  muddy  ;  the  gay  hope 
is  gone ; 

Count  Albert  is  prisoner  on  Mount  Leb- 
anon.' 

O,  she  's  ta'en  a  horse  should  be  fleet  at 

her  speed ; 
And  she 's  ta'en  a  sword  should  be  sharp 

at  her  need ; 
And  she  has  ta'en  shipping  for  Palestine's 

land, 
To  ransom  Count  Albert  from  Soldanrie's 

hand. 


BALLADS  FROM   THE   GERMAN, 


473 


Small  thought  had  Count  Albert  on  fair 
Rosalie, 

Small  thought  on  his  faith  or  his  knight- 
hood had  he  : 

A  heathenish  damsel  his  light  heart  had 
won, 

The  Soldan's  fair  daughter  of  Mount 
Lebanon. 

'  O    Christian,    brave    Christian,   my    love 

vvouldst  thou  be, 
Three  things  must  thou  do  ere  I  hearken 

to  thee  : 
Our  laws  and  our  worship  on  thee  shalt 

thou  take ; 
And  this  thou  shalt  first  do  for  Zulema's 

sake. 

1  And  next,  in  the  cavern  where  burns  ever- 
more 

The  mystical  flame  which  the  Curdmans 
adore, 

Alone  and  in  silence  three  nights  shalt  thou 
wake  ; 

And  this  thou  shalt  next  do  for  Zulema's 
sake. 

1  And  last,  thou  shalt  aid  us  with  counsel 

and  hand, 
To  drive  the  Frank  robber  from  Palestine's 

land ; 
For  my  lord  and  my  love  then  Count  Albert 

I  '11  take,      . 
When  all  this  is  accomplished  for  Zulema's 

sake.' 

He  has  thrown  by  his  helmet  and  cross- 
handled  sword, 

Renouncing  his  knighthood,  denying  his 
Lord  ; 

He  has  ta'en  the  green  caftan,  and  turban 
put  on, 

For  the  love  of  the  maiden  of  fair  Lebanon. 

And  in  the  dread  cavern,  deep  deep  under 

ground, 
Which  fifty  steel  gates  and  steel  portals 

surround, 
He  has  watched  until  daybreak,  but  sight 

saw  he  none, 
Save  the  flame  burning  bright  on  its  altar 

of  stone. 

Amazed    was    the    Princess,   the    Soldan 

amazed, 
Sore  murmured  the  priests  as  on  Albert 

they  gazed; 
They  searched  all  his  garments,  and  under 

his  weeds 
They  found  and   took  from  him  his  rosary 

beads. 


Again  in    the   cavern,   deep   deep    under 

ground, 
He  watched  the  lone  night,  while  the  winds 

whistled  round ; 
Far  off  was  their  murmur,  it  came  not  more 

nigh, 
The   flame   burned  unmoved   and   naught 

else  did  he  spy. 

Loud  murmured  the   priests  and  amazed 

was  the  king, 
While  many  dark  spells  of  their  witchcraft 

they  sing; 
They  searched  Albert's  body,  and,  lo  !  on 

his  breast 
Was  the  sign  of  the  Cross  by  his  father 

impressed. 

The  priests  they  erase  it  with  care  and 
with  pain, 

And  the  recreant  returned  to  the  cavern 
again ; 

But  as  he  descended  a  whisper  there  fell: 

It  was  his  good  angel,  who  bade  him  fare- 
well! 

High  bristled  his  hair,  his  heart  fluttered 

and  beat, 
And  he  turned  him  five  steps,  half  resolved 

to  retreat ; 
But  his  heart  it  was  hardened,  his  purpose 

was  gone, 
When  he  thought  of  the  maiden  of  fair 

Lebanon. 

Scarce  passed  he  the  archway,  the  threshold 

scarce  trode, 
When  the  winds  from  the  fpur  points  of 

heaven  were  abroad, 
They  made  each  steel  portal  to  rattle  and 

ring, 
And  borne  on  the  blast  came  the  dread 

Fire-King. 

Full  sore  rocked  the  cavern  whene'er  he 
drew  nigh, 

The  fire  on  the  altar  blazed  bickering  and 
high ; 

In  volcanic  explosions  the  mountains  pro- 
claim 

The  dreadful  approach  of  the  Monarch  of 
Flame. 

Unmeasured  in  height,  undistinguished  in 

form, 
His  breath  it  was  lightning,  his  voice  it  was 

storm  ; 
I  ween  the  stout  heart  of  Count  Albert  was 

tame, 
When  he  saw  in  his  terrors  the  Monarch 

of  Flame. 


474 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL   WORKS. 


In  his  hand  a  broad  falchion  blue-glimmered 

through  smoke, 
And  Mount  Lebanon  shook  as  the  monarch 

he  spoke : 
1  With  this  brand  shalt  thou  conquer,  thus 

long  and  no  more, 
Till  thou  bend  to  the  Cross  and  the  Virgin 

adore.' 

The  cloud-shrouded  arm  gives  the  weapon  ; 

and  see ! 
The  recreant  receives  the  charmed  gift  on 

his  knee  : 
The  thunders  growl  distant  and  faint  gleam 

the  fires, 
As,  borne  on  the  whirlwind,  the  phantom 

retires. 

Count  Albert  has  armed  him  the  Paynim 

among, 
Though  his  heart  it  was  false,  yet  his  arm 

it  was  strong ; 
And  the  Red-cross   waxed  faint  and  the 

Crescent  came  on, 
From  the  day  he  commanded  on   Mount 

Lebanon. 

From  Lebanon's  forests  to  Galilee's  wave, 
The  sands  of  Samaar  drank  the  blood  of 

the  brave; 
Till  the  Knights  of  the  Temple  and  Knights 

of  Saint  John, 
With  Salem's  King  Baldwin,  against  him 

came  on. 

The  war-cymbals   clattered,  the  trumpets 

replied, 
The  lances  were  couched,  and  they  closed 

on  each  side ; 
And   horseman  and  horses  Count  Albert 

o'erthrew, 
Till   he   pierced   the    thick  tumult    King 

Baldwin  unto. 

Against  the  charmed  blade  which  Count 

Albert  did  wield, 
The   fence  had   been  vain  of  the   king's 

Red-cross  shield; 
But  a  page  thrust  him  forward  the  monarch 

before, 
And  cleft  the  proud  turban  the  renegade 

Wo  i  ° 

So  fell  was  the  dint  that  Count  Albert 
stooped  low 

Before  the  crossed  shield  to  his  steel 
saddlebow  j 

And  scarce  had  he  bent  to  the  Red-cross 
his  head, — 

'Bonne  Grace,  Notre  Dame!'  he  unwit- 
tingly said. 


Sore  sighed   the  charmed   sword,  for   its 

virtue  was  o'er, 
It  sprung  from  his  grasp  and  was  never 

seen  more  ; 
But  true  men  have  said  that  the  lightning's 

red  wing 
Did   waft  back   the    brand    to   the   dread 

Fire-King. 

He  clenched  his  set  teeth  and  his  gaunt- 
leted  hand; 

He  stretched  with  one  buffet  that  page  on 
the  strand ; 

As  back  from  the  stripling  the  broken 
casque  rolled, 

You  might  see  the  blue  eyes  and  the  ring- 
lets of  gold. 

Short  time  had  Count  Albert  in  horror  to 

stare 
On   those    death-swimming    eyeballs   and 

blood-clotted  hair ; 
For  down  came  the  Templars,  like  Cedron 

in  flood, 
And  dyed  their  long  lances   in   Saracen 

blood. 

The  Saracens,  Curdmans,  and  Ishmaelites 
yield 

To  the  scallop,  the  saltier,  and  crossleted 
shield ; 

And  the  eagles  were  gorged  with  the  infi- 
del dead 

From  Bethsaida's  fountains  to  Naphthali's 
head. 

The  battle  is  over  on  Bethsaida's  plain.  — 
O,  who  is  yon  Paynim  lies  stretched  mid 

the  slain? 
And  who  is  yon  page   lying  cold  at   his 

knee?  — 
O,  who  but  Count  Albert  and  fair  Rosalie? 

The  lady  was  buried  in  Salem's  blest 
bound, 

The  count  he  was  left  to  the  vulture  and 
hound  : 

Her  soul  to  high  mercv  Our  Lady  did 
bring ; 

His  went  on  the  blast  to  the  dread  Fire- 
King. 

Yet  many  a  minstrel  in  harping  can  tell 

How  the  Red-cross  it  conquered,  the  Cres- 
cent it  fell : 

And  lords  and  gay  ladies  have  sighed  mid 
their  glee 

At  the  tale  of  Count  Albert  and  fair  Rosalie. 


BALLADS  FROM   THE   GERMAN, 


475 


jFreomcfc  ano  &ltce. 

Frederick  leaves  the  land  of  France, 
Homeward  hastes  his  steps  to  measure, 

Careless  casts  the  parting  glance 
On  the  scene  of  former  pleasure. 

Joying  in  his  prancing  steed, 

Keen  to  prove  his  untried  blade, 

Hope's  gay  dreams  the  soldier  lead 
Over  mountain,  moor,  and  glade. 

Helpiess,  ruined,  left  forlorn, 

Lovely  Alice  wept  alone, 
Mourned  o'er  love's  fond  contract  torn, 

Hope  and  peace  and  honor  flown. 

Mark  her  breast's  convulsive  throbs  ! 

See,  the  tear  of  anguish  flows  !  — 
Mingling  soon  with  bursting  sobs, 

Loud  the  laugh  of  frenzy  rose. 

Wild  she  cursed  and  wild  she  prayed ; 

Seven  long  days  and  nights  are  o'er ; 
Death  in  pity  brought  his  aid, 

As  the  village  bell  struck  four. 

Far  from  her  and  far  from  France,  - 
Faithless  Frederick  onward  rides  ; 

Marking  blithe  the  morning's  glance 
Mantling  o'er  the  mountains'  sides. 

Heard  ye  not  the  boding  sound, 
As  the  tongue  of  yonder  tower 

Slowly  to  the  hills  around 

Told  the  fourth,  the  fated  hour? 

Starts  the  steed  and  snuffs  the  air, 
Yet  no  cause  of  dread  appears  ; 

Bristles  high  the  rider's  hair, 

Struck  with  strange  mysterious  fears. 

Desperate,  as  his  terrors  rise, 
In  the  steed  the  spur  he  hides  ; 

From  himself  in  vain  he  flies ; 
Anxious,  restless,  on  he  rides. 

Seven  long  days  and  seven  long  nights, 
Wild  he  wandered,  woe  the  while  ! 

Ceaseless  care  and  causeless  fright 
Urge  his  footsteps  many  a  mile. 

Dark  the  seventh  sad  night  descends ; 

Rivers  swell  and  rain-streams  pour, 
While  the  deafening  thunder  lends 

All  the  terrors  of  its  roar. 

Weary,  wet,  and  spent  with  toil, 

Where  his  head  shall  Frederick  hide  ? 

Where  but  in  yon  ruined  aisle, 
By  the  lightning's  flash  descried. 


To  the  portal,  dank  and  low, 

Fast  his  steed  the  wanderer  bound  : 

Down  a  ruined  staircase  slow 
Next  his  darkling  way  he  wound. 

Long  drear  vaults  before  him  lie ! 

Glimmering  lights  are  seen  to  glide  !  - 
'  Blessed  Mary,  hear  my  cry  ! 

Deign  a  sinner's  steps  to  guide  ! ' 

Often  lost  their  quivering  beam, 
Still  the  lights  move  slow  before, 

Till  they  rest  their  ghastly  gleam 
Right  against  an  iron  door. 

Thundering  voices  from  within, 
Mixed  with  peals  of  laughter,  rose  ; 

As  they  fell,  a  solemn  strain 

Lent  its  wild  and  wondrous  close  ! 

Midst  the  din  he  seemed  to  hear 
Voice  of  friends  by  death  removed ;  — 

Well  he  knew  that  solemn  air, 

'T  was  the  lay  that  Alice  loved.  — 

Hark  !  for  now  a  solemn  knell 

Four  times  on  the  still  night  broke ; 

Four  times  at  its  deadened  swell 
Echoes  from  the  ruins  spoke. 

As  the  lengthened  clangors  die, 

Slowly  opes  the  iron  door ! 
Straight  a  banquet  met  his  eye, 

But  a  funeral's  form  it  wore  ! 

Coffins  for  the  seats  extend : 

All  with  black  the  board  was  spread  ; 
Girt  by  parent,  brother,  friend, 

Long  since  numbered  with  the  dead  ! 

Alice,  in  her  grave-clothes  bound, 
Ghastly  smiling,  points  a  seat ; 

All  arose  with  thundering  sound ; 
All  the  expected  stranger  greet. 

High  their  meagre  arms  they  wave, 
Wild  their  notes  of  welcome  swell ;  — 

1  Welcome,  traitor,  to  the  grave  ! 
Perjured,  bid  the  light  farewell ! ' 


&fje  Battle  of  Sempacfj. 

'T  WAS  when  among  our  linden-trees 
The  bees  had  housed  in  swarms  — 

And  gray-haired  peasants  say  that  these 
Betoken  foreign  arms  — 


476 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL   WORKS. 


Then  looked  we  down  to  Willisow, 

The  land  was  all  in  name ; 
We  knew  the  Archduke  Leopold 

With  all  his  army  came. 

The  Austrian  nobles  made  their  vow, 
So  hot  their  heart  and  bold, 

•  On  Switzer  carles  we  '11  trample  now, 

And  slay  both  young  and  old.' 

With  clarion  loud  and  banner  proud, 

From  Zurich  on  the  lake, 
In  martial  pomp  and  fair  array 

Their  onward  march  they  make. 

;  Now  list,  ye  lowland  nobles  all  — 

Ye  seek  the  mountain-strand, 
Nor  wot  ye  what  shall  be  your  lot 

In  such  a  dangerous  land. 

'  I  rede  ye,  shrive  ye  of  your  sins 

Before  ye  farther  go  ; 
A  skirmish  in  Helvetian  hills 

May  send  your  souls  to  woe.' 

1  But  where  now  shall  we  find  a  priest 
Our  shrift  that  he  may  hear  ? '  — 

'  The  Switzer  priest  has  ta'en  the  field, 
He  deals  a  penance  drear. 

'  Right  heavily  upon  your  head 

He  '11  lay  his  hand  of  steel, 
And  with  his  trusty  partisan 

Your  absolution  deal.' 

'Twas  on  a  Monday  morning  then, 

The  corn  was  steeped  in  dew, 
And  merry  maids  had  sickles  ta'en, 

When  the  host  to  Sempach  drew. 

The  stalwart  men  of  fair  Lucerne, 

Together  have  they  joined  ; 
The  pith  and  core  of  manhood  stern, 

Wis  none  cast  looks  behind. 

It  was  the  Lord  of  Hare-castle, 

And  to  the  Ouke  he  said, 
Y<>n  little  band  of  brethren  true 
Will  meet  us  undismayed.'  — 

« »  Hare-castle,  thou  heart  of  hare  ! ' 
rce  i  )\«  nstern  replied. — 

•  Shalt  see  then  how  the  game  will  fare,' 

The  taunted  knight  replied. 

There  was  lacing  then  of  helmets  bright, 

And  doting  ranks  amain; 
The   peaki   toey   hewed  from  their  boot- 
points 

Might  well-nigh  load  a  wain. 


And  thus  they  to  each  other  said, 

*  Yon  handful  down  to  hew 
Will  be  no  boastful  tale  to  tell, 

The  peasants  are  so  few.' 

The  gallant  Swiss  Confederates  there, 

They  prayed  to  God  aloud, 
And  he  displayed  his  rainbow  fair 

Against  a  swarthy  cloud. 

Then  heart  and  pulse  throbbed  more  and 
more 

With  courage  firm  and  high, 
And  down  the  good  Confederates  bore 

On  the  Austrian  chivalry. 

The  Austrian  Lion  'gan  to  growl 

And  toss  his  main  and  tail, 
And  ball  and  shaft  and  crossbow  bolt 

Went  whistling  forth  like  hail. 

Lance,  pike,  and  halbert  mingled  there, 
The  game  was  nothing  sweet ; 

The  boughs  of  many  a  stately  tree 
Lay  shivered  at  their  feet. 

The  Austrian  men-at-arms  stood  fast, 
So  close  their  spears  they  laid ; 

It  chafed  the  gallant  Winkelreid, 
Who  to  his  comrades  said  — 

'  I  have  a  virtuous  wife  at  home, 

A  wife  and  infant  son  ; 
I  leave  them  to  my  country's  care,  — 

This  field  shall  soon  be  won. 

'  These  nobles  lay  their  spears  right  thick 

And  keep  full  firm  array, 
Yet  shall  my  charge  their  order  break 

And  make  my  brethren  way.' 

He  rushed  against  the  Austrian  band, 

In  desperate  career, 
And  with  his  body,  breast,  and  hand, 

Bore  down  each  hostile  spear. 

Four  lances  splintered  on  his  crest, 

Six  shivered  in  his  side  ; 
Still  on  the  serried  files  he  pressed  — 

He  broke  their  ranks  and  died. 

This  patriot's  self-devoted  deed 

First  tamed  the  Lion's  mood, 
And  the  four  Forest  Cantons  freed 

From  thraldom  by  his  blood. 

Right  where  his  charge  had  made  a  lane 

His  valiant  comrades  burst, 
With  sword  and  axe  and  partisan, 

And  hack  and  stab  and  thrust. 


BALLADS  FROM   THE  GERMAN. 


477 


The  daunted  Lion  'gan  to  whine 

And  granted  ground  amain, 
The  Mountain  Bull  he  bent  his  brows, 

And  gored  his  sides  again. 

Then  lost  was  banner,  spear,  and  shield 

At  Sempach  in  the  flight, 
The  cloister  vaults  at  Konig's-field 

Hold  many  an  Austrian  knight. 

It  was  the  Archduke  Leopold, 

So  lordly  would  he  ride, 
But  he  came  against  the  Switzer  churls, 

And  they  slew  him  in  his  pride. 

The  heifer  said  unto  the  bull, 

*  And  shall  I  not  complain  ? 
There  came  a  foreign  nobleman 

To  milk  me  on  the  plain. 

1  One  thrust  of  thine  outrageous  horn 
Has  galled  the  knight  so  sore 

That  to  the  churchyard  he  is  borne, 
To  range  our  glens  no  more.' 

An  Austrian  noble  left  the  stour, 
And  fast  the  flight  'gan  take  ; 

And  he  arrived  in  luckless  hour 
At  Sempach  on  the  lake. 

He  and  his  squire  a  fisher  called  — 
His  name  was  Hans  von  Rot  — 

1  For  love  or  meed  or  charity, 
Receive  us  in  thy  boat ! ' 

Their  anxious  call  the  fisher  heard, 

And,  glad  the  meed  to  win, 
His  shallop  to  the  shore  he  steered 

And  took  the  flyers  in. 

And  while  against  the  tide  and  wind 

Hans  stoutly  rowed  his  way, 
The  noble  to  his  follower  signed 

He  should  the  boatman  slay. 

The  fisher's  back  was  to  them  turned, 

The  squire  his  dagger  drew, 
Hans  saw  his  shadow  in  the  lake, 

The  boat  he  overthrew. 

He  whelmed  the  boat,  and  as  they  strove 
He  stunned  them  with  his  oar, 

1  Now,  drink  ye  deep,  my  gentle  sirs, 
You  '11  ne'er  stab  boatman  more. 

!  Two  gilded  fishes  in  the  lake 
This  morning  have  I  caught, 

Their  silver  scales  may  much  avail, 
Their  carrion  flesh  is  naught.' 


It  was  a  messenger  of  woe 

Has  sought  the  Austrian  land : 

1  Ah  !  gracious  lady,  evil  news  ! 
My  lord  lies  on  the  strand. 

4  At  Sempach,  on  the  battle-field, 
His  bloody  corpse  lies  there.'  — 

1  Ah,  gracious  God  ! '  the  lady  cried, 
'  What  tidings  of  despair ! ' 

Now  would  you  know  the  minstrel  wight 
Who  sings  of  strife  so  stern, 

Albert  the  Souter  is  he  hight, 
A  burgher  of  Lucerne. 

A  merry  man  was  he,  I  wot, 

The  night  he  made  the  lay, 
Returning  from  the  bloody  spot 

Where  God  had  judged  the  day. 


&f>e  Noble  HHormser. 

AN   ANCIENT  BALLAD. 

O,  will  you  hear  a  knightly  tale  of  old 

Bohemian  day, 
It  was  the  noble  Moringer  in  wedlock  bed 

he  lay ; 
He  halsed  and   kissed   his  dearest   dame 

that  was  as  sweet  as  May, 
And  said,  '  Now,  lady  of  my  heart,  attend 

the  words  I  say. 

"Tis   I  have  vowed  a  pilgrimage  unto  a 

distant  shrine, 
And  I  must  seek  Saint  Thomas-land  and 

leave  the  land  that 's  mine  ; 
Here  shalt  thou  dwell  the  while  in  state, 

so  thou  wilt  pledge  thy  fay 
That  thou  for  my  return  wilt  wait  seven 

twelvemonths  and  a  day.' 

Then  out  and  spoke  that  lady  bright,  sore 

troubled  in  her  cheer, 
•  Now  tell  me  true,  thou  noble  knight,  what 

order  takest  thou  here  ; 
And  who  shall  lead  thy  vassal  band  and 

hold  thy  lordly  sway, 
And  be  thy  lady's  guardian  true  when  thou 

art  far  away  ? ' 

Out  spoke  the  noble   Moringer,  'Of  that 

have  thou  no  care, 
There's  many  a  valiant  gentleman  of  me 

holds  living  fair ; 


478 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


The  trustiest  shall  rule  my  land,  my  vassals, 

and  my  state, 
And  be  a  guardian  tried  and  true  to  thee, 

my  lovely  mate. 

'As  Christian-man,  I  needs  must  keep  the 

vow  which  I  have  plight, 
When  I  am  far  in  foreign  land,  remember 

thy  true  knight ; 
And  cease,  my  dearest  dame,  to  grieve,  for 

vain  were  sorrow  now, 
But  grant  thy  Moringer  his  leave,  since  God 

hath  heard  his  vow.' 


It  was  the  noble   Moringer  from  bed  he 

made  him  boune, 
And  met  him  there  his  chamberlain  with 

ewer  and  with  gown  : 
He  flung  the  mantle  on  his  back,  't  was 

furred  with  miniver, 
He   dipped   his   hand  in  water  cold  and 

bathed  his  forehead  fair. 

1  Now  hear,'  he  said, '  Sir  Chamberlain,  true 

vassal  art  thou  mine, 
And  such  the  trust  that  I  repose  in  that 

proved  worth  of  thine, 
For  seven  years  shalt  thou  rule  my  towers 

and  lead  my  vassal  train, 
And  pledge  thee  for  my  lady's  faith  till  I 

return  again.' 

The  chamberlain  was  blunt  and  true,  and 

sturdily  said  he, 
'Abide,  my  lord,  and  rule  your  own,  and 

take  this  rede  from  me; 
That  woman's  faith's  a  brittle  trust  —  Seven 

twelvemonths  didst  thou  say? 
1  '11  pledge  me  for  no  lady's  truth  beyond 

the  seventh  fair  day/ 

The  noble  baron   turned  him   round,  his 

heart  was  full  of  care, 
His  gallant  esquire  stood  him  nigh,  he  was* 

Marstetten's  heir, 
To  whom  he  spoke  right  anxiously,  '  Thou 

trusty  squire  to  me, 
Wilt  thou  receive  this  weighty  trust  when 

I  am  o'er  the  sea  ? 

'  To  watch  and  ward  my  castle  strong,  and 

to  protect  my  land, 
And  to  the  hunting  or  the  host  to  lead  my 

al  bond ; 
And  pledge  thee  for  my  lady's  faith  till  seven 

long  yean  are  gone, 
And    guard    her   as   Our   Lady  dear   was 

guarded  by  Saint  John.' 


Marstetten's  heir  was  kind  and  true,  but 
fiery,  hot,  and  young, 

And  readily  he  answer  made  with  too  pre- 
sumptuous tongue : 

'  My  noble  lord,  cast  care  away  and  on  your 
journey  wend, 

And  trust  this  charge  to  me  until  your  pil- 
grimage have  end. 

'  Rely  upon  my  plighted  faith,  which  shall 

be  truly  tried, 
To  guard  your  lands,  and  ward  your  towers, 

and  with  your  vassals  ride  ; 
And  for  your  lovely  lady's  faith,  so  virtuous 

and  so  dear, 
I  '11  gage  my  head  it  knows  no  change,  be 

absent  thirty  year.' 

The  noble  Moringer  took  cheer  when  thus 
he  heard  him  speak, 

And  doubt  forsook  his  troubled  brow  and 
sorrow  left  his  cheek ; 

A  long  adieu  he  bids  to  all— hoists  top- 
sails and  away, 

And  wanders  in  Saint  Thomas-land  seven 
twelvemonths  and  a  day. 

It  was  the  noble  Moringer  within  an  orchard 

slept, 
When  on  the  baron's  slumbering  sense  a 

boding  vision  crept ; 
And  whispered  in  his  ear  a  voice,  "T  is 

time,  Sir  Knight,  to  wake, 
Thy  lady  and  thy  heritage  another  master 

take. 

'Thy   tower   another   banner   knows,    thy 

steeds  another  rein, 
And  stoop  them  to  another's  will  thy  gal-  . 

lant  vassal  train ; 
And  she,  the  lady  of  thy  love,  so  faithful 

once  and  fair, 
This  night  within  thy  fathers'  hall  she  weds 

Marstetten's  heir.' 

It  is  the  noble  Moringer  starts  up  and  tears 

his  beard, 
'O,   would   that   I  had   ne'er  been   born! 

what  tidings  have  I  heard ! 
To  lose  my  lordship  and  my  lands  the  less 

would  be  my  care, 
But,  God !  that  e'er  a  squire  untrue  should 

wed  my  lady  fair. 

*  O  good  Saint  Thomas,  hear,'  he  prayed, 

'my  patron  saint  art  thou, 
A  traitor  robs  me  of  ray  land  even  while  I 

pay  my  vow ! 


BALLADS  FROM   THE   GERMAN. 


479 


My  wife  he  brings  to  infamy  that  was  so 
pure  of  name, 

And  I  am  far  in  foreign  land  and  must  en- 
dure the  shame.' 

It  was  the  good  Saint  Thomas  then  who 
heard  his  pilgrim's  prayer, 

And  sent  a  sleep  so  deep  and  dead  that  it 
o'erpowered  his  care ; 

He  waked  in  fair  Bohemian  land  out- 
stretched beside  a  rill, 

High  on  the  right  a  castle  stood,  low  on 
the  left  a  mill. 

The  Moringer  he  started  up  as  one  from 

spell  unbound, 
And   dizzy   with    surprise   and   joy  gazed 

wildly  all  around; 
1 1  know  my  fathers'  ancient  towers,  the 

mill,  the  stream  I  know, 
Now    blessed    be    my    patron    saint    who 

cheered  his  pilgrim's  woe  ! ' 

He  leant  upon  his  pilgrim  staff  and  to  the 

mill  he  drew, 
So  altered  was  his  goodly  form  that  none 

their  master  knew; 
The  baron  to  the  miller  said, '  Good  friend, 

for  charity, 
Tell  a  poor  palmer  in  your  land  what  tidings 

may  there  be?' 

The  miller  answered  him  again,  '  He  knew 

of  little  news, 
Save  that  the  lady  of  the  land  did  a  new 

bridegroom  choose ; 
Her  husband  died  in  distant  land,  such  is 

the  constant  word, 
His  death  sits  heavy  on  our  souls,  he  was 

a  worthy  lord. 

4  Of  him  I  held  the  little  mill  which  wins 

me  living  free, 
God  rest  the  baron  in  his  grave,  he  still  was 

kind  to  me ! 
And  when  Saint  Martin's  tide  comes  round 

and  millers  take  their  toll, 
The  priest  that  prays  for  Moringer  shall 

have  both  cope  and  stole.' 

It  was  the  noble  Moringer  to  climb  the  hill 

began, 
And  stood  before  the  bolted  gate  a  woe 

and  weary  man; 
'  Now  help  me,  every  saint  in  heaven  that 

can  compassion  take, 
To  gain  the  entrance  of  my  hall  this  woful 

match  to  break.' 


His  very  knock  it  sounded  sad,  his  call  was 

sad  and  slow, 
For  heart  and  head,  and  voice  and  hand, 

were  heavy  all  with  woe ; 
And  to  the  warder  thus  he  spoke  :  '  Friend, 

to  thy  lady  say, 
A  pilgrim  from  Saint  Thomas-land  craves 

harbor  for  a  day. 

1 1  've  wandered  many  a  weary  step,  my 
strength  is  well-nigh  done, 

And  if  she  turn  me  from  her  gate  I  '11  see 
no  morrow's  sun ; 

I  pray,  for  sweet  Saint  Thomas'  sake,  a 
pilgrim's  bed  and  dole, 

And  for  the  sake  of  Moringer's,  her  once- 
loved  husband's  soul.' 

It  was  the  stalwart  warder  then  he  came 

his  dame  before, 
'A  pilgrim,  worn  and  travel-toiled,  stands 

at  the  castle-door ; 
And  prays,  for  sweet  Saint  Thomas'  sake, 

for  harbor  and  for  dole, 
And  for  the  sake  of  Moringer,  thy  noble 

husband's  soul.' 

The  lady's  gentle  heart  was  moved,  *  Do  up 
the  gate,'  she  said, 

*  And  bid  the  wanderer  welcome  be  to  ban- 

quet and  to  bed  ; 
And  since  he  names  my  husband's  name, 

so  that  he  lists  to  stay, 
These  towers   shall    be   his   harborage  a 

twelvemonth  and  a  day.' 

It  was  the  stalwart  warder  then  undid  the 

portal  broad, 
It  was  the  noble   Moringer  that  o'er  the 

threshold  strode; 

•  And  have  thou  thanks,  kind  Heaven,'  he 

said,  '  though  from  a  man  of  sin, 
That  the  true  lord  stands  here  once  more 
his  castle-gate  within.' 

Then  up  the  halls  paced  Moringer,  his  step 

was  sad  and  slow  ; 
It  sat  full  heavy  on  his  heart  none  seemed 

their  lord  to  know ; 
He  sat  him  on  a  lowly  bench,  oppressed 

with  woe  and  wrong, 
Short  space  he  sat,  but  ne'er  to  him  seemed 

little  space  so  long. 

Now  spent  was  day  and  feasting  o'er,  and 

come  was  evening  hour, 
The  time  was  nigh  when  new-made  brides 

retire  to  nuptial  bower ; 


480 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL   WORKS. 


'  Our  castle's  wont,'  a  bridesman  said, '  hath 

been  both  firm  and  long 
No  guest  to  harbor  in  our  halls  till  he  shall 

chant  a  song.' 

Then  spoke  the  youthful  bridegroom  there 
as  he  sat  by  the  bride, 

'My  merry  minstrel  folk,'  quoth  he,  'lay 
shalm  and  harp  aside ; 

Our  pilgrim  guest  must  sing  a  lay,  the  cas- 
tle's rule  to  hold, 

And  well  his  guerdon  will  I  pay  with  gar- 
ment and  with  gold.' 

'Chill  flows  the  lay  of  frozen  age,'  'twas 

thus  the  pilgrim  sung, 
'  Nor  golden  meed  nor  garment  gay  unlocks 

his  heavy  tongue ; 
Once  did   I   sit,  thou  bridegroom  gay,  at 

board  as  rich  as  thine, 
And  by  my  side  as  fair  a  bride  with  all  her 

charms  was  mine. 

'  But  time  traced  furrows  on  my  face  and  I 

frew  silver-haired, 
ocks  of  brown  and  cheeks  of  youth 
she  left  this  brow  and  beard ; 
Once  rich,  but  now  a  palmer  poor,  I  tread 

life's  latest  stage, 
And  mingle  with  your  bridal  mirth  the  lay 
of  frozen  age.' 

It  was  the  noble  lady  there  this  woful  lay 

that  hears, 
And  for  the  aged  pilgrim's  grief  her  eye 

was  dimmed  with  tears ; 
She  bade  her  gallant  cupbearer  a  golden 

beaker  take, 
And  bear  it  to  the  palmer  poor  to  quaff  it 

for  her  sake. 

It  was  the  noble  Moringer  that  dropped 

amid  the  wine 
A  bridal  ring  of  burning  gold  so  costly  and 

so  fine : 
Now  listen,  gentles,  to  my  song,  it  tells  you 

but  the  sooth, 
'Twas    with    that   very    ring  of   gold  he 

pledged  his  bridal  truth. 

Then   to  the  cupbearer  he  said,  'Do  me 

one  kindly  deed, 
And  should  my  better  days  return,  full  rich 

shall  be  thy  meed; 
Bear  back  the  golden  cup  again  to  yonder 

bride  so  gay, 
And  crave   her  of  her  courtesy  to  pledge 

the  palmer  gray.' 


The   cupbearer  was  courtly  bred  nor  was 

the  boon  denied, 
The  golden  cup  he  took  again  and  bore  it 

to  the  bride ; 
'  Lady,'  he  said, '  your  reverend  guest  sends 

this,  and  bids  me  pray 
That,  in   thy  noble  courtesy,  thou  pledge 

the  palmer  gray.' 

The  ring  hath  caught  the  lady's  eye,  she 

views  it  close  and  near, 
Then  might  you   hear  her  shriek   aloud, 

'  The  Moringer  is  here  ! ' 
Then  might  you  see  her  start  from  seat 

while  tears  in  torrents  fell, 
But  whether  't  was  for  joy  or  woe  the  ladies 

best  can  tell. 


But  loud  she  uttered  thanks  to  Heaven  and 

every  saintly  power 
That  had  returned  the  Moringer  before  the 

midnight  hour ; 
And  loud   she   uttered   vow  on  vow  that 

never  was  there  bride 
That  had  like  her  preserved  her  troth  or 

been  so  sorely  tried. 

'  Yes,  here  I  claim  the  praise,'  she  said,  '  to 

constant  matrons  due, 
Who  keep  the  troth  that  they  have  plight 

so  steadfastly  and  true ; 
For  count  the  term  howe'er  you  will,  so 

that  you  count  aright, 
Seven    twelvemonths   and  a   day  are   out 

when  bells  toll  twelve  to-night.' 

It  was  Marstetten  then  rose  up,  his  falchion 

there  he  drew, 
He  kneeled  before  the  Moringer  and  down 

his  weapon  threw ; 
'My  oath   and   knightly  faith  are  broke,' 

these  were  the  words  he  said, 
'Then  take,  my  liege,  thy  vassal's  sword, 

and  take  thy  vassal's  head.' 

The  noble  Moringer  he  smiled,  and  then 

aloud  did  say, 
1  He  gathers    wisdom    that    hath   roamed 

seven  twelvemonths  and  a  day  ; 
My  daughter  now  hath  fifteen  years,  fame 

speaks  her  sweet  and  fair, 
I  give  her  for  the  bride  you  lose  and  name 

her  for  my  heir. 

♦The  young  bridegroom  hath  youthful 
bride'  the  old  bridegroom  the  old, 

Whose  faith  was  kept  till  term  and  tide  so 
punctually  were  told ; 


BALLADS  FROM  THE  GERMAN, 


481 


But  blessings  on  the  warder  kind  that  oped 

my  castle  gate, 
For  had  I  come  at  morrow  tide  I  came  a 

day  too  late.' 


Wgt  Erl-IBing. 

FROM    THE   GERMAN   OF   GOETHE. 

O,  who  rides  by  night  thro'  the  woodland 

so  wild  ? 
It  is  the  fond  father  embracing  his  child ; 
And  close  the  boy  nestles  within  his  loved 

arm, 
To  hold  himself  fast  and  to  keep  himself 

warm. 

'O   father,   see  yonder!  see  yonder!'  he 

says  ; 
'My  boy,  upon  what   dost  thou  fearfully 

gaze  ? '  — 
1 0,  't  is  the  Erl-King  with  his  crown  and 

his  shroud.'  — 
1  No,  my  son,  it  is  but  a  dark  wreath  of  the 

cloud.' 

{The  Erl-King  speaks.) 

*■  O,  come  and  go  with  me,  thou  loveliest 
child ; 

By  many  a  gay  sport  shall  thy  time  be  be- 
guiled ; 

My  mother  keeps  for  thee  full  many  a  fair 
toy, 

And  many  a  fine  flower  shall  she  pluck  for 
my  boy.' 

*  O  father,  my  father,  and  did  you  not  hear 
The    Erl-King    whisper    so    low    in    my 
ear  ? '  — 


'Be  still,  my  heart's  darling  —  my  child, 

be  at  ease ; 
It  was  but  the  wild  blast  as  it  sung  thro' 

the  trees.' 

Erl-King. 

'O,  wilt  thou  go  with  me,  thou  loveliest 

boy? 
My  daughter  shall  tend  thee  with  care  and 

with  joy ; 
She  shall  bear  thee  so  lightly  thro'  wet  and 

thro'  wild, 
And  press  thee  and  kiss  thee  and  sing  to 

my  child.' 

'O,  father,  my  father,  and    saw  you    not 

plain, 
The  Erl-King's  pale  daughter,  glide  past 

through  the  rain  ?  '  — 
'  O  yes,  my  loved  treasure,  I  knew  it  full 

soon; 
It  was  the  gray  willow  that  danced  to  the 

moon.' 

Erl-King. 

'  O,  come  and  go  with  me,  no  longer  delay, 
Or  else,  silly  child,  I  will  drag  thee  away.'  — 
1  O  father !  O  father  !  now,  now  keep  your 

hold, 
The  Erl-King  has  seized  me  —  his  grasp  is 

so  cold ! ' 

Sore  trembled  the  father ;  he  spurred  thro' 

the  wild, 
Clasping  close  to  his  bosom  his  shuddering 

child ; 
He  reaches  his  dwelling  in  doubt  and  in 

dread, 
But,  clasped  to  his  bosom,  the  infant  was 

dead/ 


3i 


BaliatJS. 


©Unfinlag : 

OR,  LORD  RONALD'S  CORONACH. 

For  them  the  viewless  forms  of  air  obey, 
Their  bidding  heed,  and  at  their  beck  repair; 

They  know  what  spirit  brews  the  stormf  ul  day, 
And  heartless  oft,  like  moody  madness  stare, 

To  see  the  phantom-train  their  secret  work  prepare. 

^  Collins. 

'  O  hone  a  rie' !     O  hone  a  rie' ! 

The  pride  of  Albin's  line  is  o'er, 
And  fallen  Glenartney's  stateliest  tree ; 

We  ne'er  shall  see  Lord  Ronald  more ! ' 

O,  sprung  from  great  Macgillianore, 
The  chief  that  never  feared  a  foe, 

How  matchless  was  thy  broad  claymore, 
How  deadly  thine  unerring  bow ! 

Well  can  the  Saxon  widows  tell 

How  on  the  Teith's  resounding  shore 

The  boldest  Lowland  warriors  fell, 
As  down  from  Lenny's  pass  you  bore. 

But  o'er  his  hills  in  festal  day 

How  blazed  Lord  Ronald's  beltane-tree, 
While  youths  and  maids  the  light  strathspey 

So  nimbly  danced  with  Highland  glee ! 

Cheered  by  the  strength  of  Ronald's  shell, 
%       E'en  age  forgot  his  tresses  hoar  ; 
now  the  loud  lament  we  swell, 

i »  see  Lord  Ronald  more  ! 

distant  isles  a  chieftain  came 
of  Ronald's  halls  to  find, 
Aim  Ith  him  the  dark-brown  game 

I  ii.it  bounds  o'er  Albin's  hills  of  wind. 

is  Moy ;  whom  in  Columba's  isle 
'IIh-  leer's  prophetic  spirit  found, 
.  with  a  minstrel's  tire  the  while, 
II.    waked  his  harp's  harmonious  sound. 


Full  many  a  spell  to  him  was  known 

Which  wandering  spirits  shrink  to  hear: 

And  many  a  lay  of  potent  tone 
Was  never  meant  for  mortal  ear. 

For  there,  't  is  said,  in  mystic  mood 
High  converse  with  the  dead  they  hold, 

And  oft  espy  the  fated  shroud 

That  shall  the  future  corpse  enfold. 

O,  so  it  fell  that  on  a  day, 

To  rouse  the  red  deer  from  their  den, 
The  chiefs  have  ta'en  their  distant  way, 

And  scoured  the  deep  Glenfinlas  glen. 

No  vassals  wait  their  sports  to  aid, 

To  watch  their  safety,  deck  their  board: 

Their  simple  dress  the  Highland  plaid, 
Their  trusty  guard  the  Highland  sword. 

Three  summer  days  through  brake  and  dell 
Their  whistling  shafts  successful  flew  ; 

And  still  when  dewy  evening  fell 
The  quarry  to  their  hut  they  drew. 

In  gray  Glenfinlas'  deepest  nook 

The  solitary  cabin  stood, 
Fast  by  Moneira's  sullen  brook, 

Which  murmurs  through  that  lonely  wood. 

Soft  fell  the  night,  the  sky  was  calm, 
When  three  successive  days  had  flown ; 

And  summer  mist  in  dewy  balm 

Steeped  heathy  bank  and  mossy  stone. 

The  moon,  half-hid  in  silvery  flakes, 
Afar  her  dubious  radiance  shed, 

Quivering  on  Katrine's  distant  lakes, 
And  resting  on  Benledi's  head. 

Now  in  their  hut  in  social  guise 
Their  sylvan  fare  the  chiefs  enjoy ; 

And  pleasure  laughs  in  Ronald's  eyes, 
As  many  a  pledge  he  quaffs  to  Moy. 


BALLADS. 


483 


*  What  lack  we  here  to  crown  our  bliss, 

While  thus  the  pulse  of  joy  beats  high  ? 
What  but  fair  woman's  yielding  kiss, 
Her  panting  breath  and  melting  eye  ? 

*  To  chase  the  deer  of  yonder  shades, 

This  morning  left  their  father's  pile 
The  fairest  of  our  mountain  maids, 
The  daughters  of  the  proud  Glengyle. 

'  Long  have  I  sought  sweet  Mary's  heart, 
And  dropped  the  tear  and  heaved  the  sigh : 

But  vain  the  lover's  wily  art 
Beneath  a  sister's  watchful  eye. 


'  Since  Enrick's  fight,  since  Morna's  death, 
No  more  on  me  shall  rapture  rise, 

Responsive  to  the  panting  breath, 
Or  yielding  kiss  or  melting  eyes. 

'  E'en  then,  when  o'er  the  heath  of  woe 
Where  sunk  my  hopes  of  love  and  fame, 

I  bade  my  harp's  wild  wailings  flow, 
On  me  the  Seer's  sad  spirit  came. 

;  The  last  dread  curse  of  angry  heaven, 
With  ghastly  sights  and  sounds  of  woe 

To  dash  each  glimpse  of  joy  was  given  — 
The  gift  the  future  ill  to  know. 


•  But  thou  mayst  teach  that  guardian  fair, 

While  far  with  Mary  I  am  flown, 
Of  other  hearts  to  cease  her  care, 
And  find  it  hard  to  guard  her  own. 

•  Touch  but  thy  harp,  thou  soon  shalt  see 

The  lovely  Flora  of  Glengyle, 
Unmindful  of  her  charge  and  me, 

Hang  on  thy  notes  'twixt  tear  and  smile. 

1  Or,  if  she  choose  a  melting  tale, 

All  underneath  the  greenwood  bough, 

Will  good  Saint  Oran's  rule  prevail, 
Stern  huntsman  of  the  rigid  brow  ?  ' 


1  The  bark  thou  saw'st,  yon  summer  morn, 
So  gayly  part  from  Oban's  bay, 

My  eye  beheld  her  dashed  and  torn 
Far  on  the  rocky  Colonsay. 

'  Thy  Fergus  too  —  thy  sister's  son, 

Thou  saw'st  with  pride  the  gallant's  power, 

As  marching  'gainst  the  Lord  of  Downe 
He  left  the  skirts  of  huge  Benmore. 

1  Thou  only  saw'st  their  tartans  wave 
As  down  Benvoirlich's  side  they  wound, 

Heard'st  but  the  pibroch  answering  brave 
To  many  a  target  clanking  round. 


484 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL    WORKS. 


'  I  heard  the  groans,  I  marked  the  tears, 
I  saw  the  wound  his  bosom  bore, 

When  on  the  serried  Saxon  spears 
He  poured  his  clan's  resistless  roar. 

*  And  thou,  who  bidst  me  think  of  bliss, 
And  bidst  my  heart  awake  to  glee, 

And  court  like  thee  the  wanton  kiss  — 
That  heart,  O  Ronald,  bleeds  for  thee  ! 

1 1  see  the  death-damps  chill  thy  brow : 
I  hear  thy  Warning  Spirit  cry ; 

The   corpse-lights  dance  —  they  're   gone, 
and  now  — 
No  more  is  given  to  gifted  eye ! ' 

4  Alone  enjoy  thy  dreary  dreams, 

Sad  prophet  of  the  evil  hour ! 
Say,  should  we  scorn  joy's  transient  beams 

Because  to-morrow's  storm  may  lour  ? 

'  Or  false  or  sooth  thy  words  of  woe, 
Clangillian's  Chieftain  ne'er  shall  fear ; 

His  blood  shall  bound  at  rapture's  glow, 
Though  doomed  to  stain  the  Saxon  spear. 

4  E'en  now,  to  meet  me  in  yon  dell, 
My  Mary's  buskins  brush  the  dew. 

He  spoke,  nor  bade  the  chief  farewell, 
But  called  his  dogs  and  gay  withdrew. 

Within  an  hour  returned  each  hound, 
In  rushed  the  rousers  of  the  deer ; 

They  howled  in  melancholy  sound, 
Then  closely  couched  beside  the  Seer. 

No  Ronald  yet ,  though  midnight  came, 
And  sad  were  Moy's  prophetic  dreams, 

As,  bending  o'er  the  dying  flame, 

He  fed  the  watch-fire's  quivering  gleams. 

Sudden  the  hounds  erect  their  ears, 

And  sudden  cease  their  moaning  howl , 
Close  pressed  to  Moy,  they  mark  their  fears 
hivering  limbs  and  stifled  growl. 

Untouched  the  harp  began  to  ring 
As  softly,  slowly,  oped  the  door ; 

And  shook  responsive  every  string 
As  light  a  footstep  pressed  the  floor. 

And  by  the  watch-fire's  -limmering  light 
the  minstrel's  side  was  seen 
An  huntress  maid,  in  beauty  bright, 
All  dropping  wet  her  robes  of  green. 

All  dropping  wet  her  garments  seem  ; 

Chilled  was  her  cheek,  her  bosom  bare, 
As,  bending  o'er  the  dying  gleam, 

She  wrung  the  moisture  from  her  hair. 


With  maiden  blush  she  softly  said, 
'  O  gentle  huntsman,  hast  thou  seen, 

In  deep  Glenfinlas'  moonlight  glade, 
A  lovely  maid  in  vest  of  green  : 

1  With  her  a  chief  in  Highland  pride  ; 

His  shoulders  bear  the  hunter's  bow, 
The  mountain  dirk  adorns  his  side, 

Far  on  the  wind  his  tartans  flow  ?  '  — 

•  And  who  art  thou  ?  and  who  are  they  ?  ' 
All  ghastly  gazing,  Moy  replied : 

'  And  why,  beneath  the  moon's  pale  ray, 
Dare  ye  thus  roam  Glenfinlas'  side  ?  ' 

4  Where  wild  Loch  Katrine  pours  her  tide, 
Blue,  dark,  and  deep,  round  many  an  isle, 

Our  father's  towers  o'erhang  her  side. 
The  castle  of  the  bold  Glengyle. 

1  To  chase  the  dun  Glenfinlas  deer 
Our  woodland  course  this  morn  we  bore, 

And  haply  met  while  wandering  here 
The  son  of  great  Macgillianore. 

1  O,  aid  me  then  to  seek  the  pair, 

Whom,  loitering  in  the  woods,  I  lost ; 

Alone  I  dare  not  venture  there, 

Where   walks,    they  say,  the    shrieking 
ghost' 

1  Yes,  many  a  shrieking  ghost  walks  there  ; 

Then  first,  my  own  sad  vow  to  keep, 
Here  will  I  pour  my  midnight  prayer, 

Which  still  must  rise  when  mortals  sleep.' 

'  O,  first,  for  pity's  gentle  sake, 

Guide  a"  lone  wanderer  on  her  way  ! 

For  I  must  cross  the  haunted  brake, 
And  reach  my  father's  towers  ere  day.' 

1  First,  three  times  tell  each  Ave-bead, 
And  thrice  a  Pater-noster  say ; 

Then  kiss  with  me  the  holy  rede ; 
So  shall  we  safely  wend  our  way.' 

'  O,  shame  to  knighthood,  strange  and  foul ! 

Go,  doff  the  bonnet  from  thy  brow, 
And  shroud  thee  in  the  monkish  cowl, 

Which  best  befits  thy  sullen  vow. 

'  Not  so,  by  high  Dunlathmon's  fire, 
Thy  heart  was  froze  to  love  and  joy, 
When  gayly  rung  thy  raptured  lyre 
To  wanton  Morna's  melting  eye.' 

Wild  stared  the  minstrel's  eyes  of  flame 
And  high  his  sable  locks  arose, 

And  quick  his  color  went  and  came 
As  fear  and  rage  alternate  rose. 


BALLADS. 


485 


4  And  thou  !  when  by  the  blazing  oak 
I  lay,  to  her  and  love  resigned, 

Say,  rode  ye  on  the  eddying  smoke, 
Or  sailed  ye  on  the  midnight  wind  ? 

4  Not  thine  a  race  of  mortal  blood, 
Nor  old  Glengyle's  pretended  line  ; 

Thy  dame,  the  Lady  of  the  Flood  — 
Thy  sire,  the  Monarch  of  the  Mine.' 

He  muttered  thrice  Saint  Oran's  rhyme, 
And  thrice  Saint  Fillan's  powerful  prayer 

Then  turned  him  to  the  eastern  clime, 
And  sternly  shook  his  coal-black  hair. 

And,  bending  o'er  his  harp,  he  flung 
His  wildest  witch-notes  on  the  wind; 

And  loud  and  high  and  strange  they  rung, 
As  many  a  magic  change  they  find. 

Tall  waxed  the  Spirit's  altering  form, 
Till  to  the  roof  her  stature  grew; 

Then,  mingling  with  the  rising  storm, 
With  one  wild  yell  away  she  flew. 


Rain  beats,  hail  rattles,  whirlwinds  tear : 
The  slender  hut  in  fragments  flew  ; 

But  not  a  lock  of  Moy's  loose  hair 
Was  waved  by  wind  or  wet  by  dew. 

Wild  mingling  with  the  howling  gale, 
Loud  bursts  of  ghastly  laughter  rise ; 

High  o'er  the  minstrel's  head  they  sail 
And  die  amid  the  northern  skies. 

The  voice  of  thunder  shook  the  wood, 
As  ceased  the  more  than  mortal  yell ; 

And  spattering  foul  a  shower  of  blood 
Upon  the  hissing  firebrands  fell. 

Next  dropped  from  high  a  mangled  arm; 

The  fingers  strained  an  half-drawn  blade  : 
And  last,  the  life-blood  streaming  warm, 

Torn  from  the  trunk,  a  gasping  head. 

Oft  o'er  that  head  in  battling  field 

Streamed  the  proud  crest  of  high  Ben- 
more; 
That  arm  the  broad  claymore  could  wield 
Which  dyed  the  Teith  with  Saxon  gore. 


486 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL    WORKS. 


Woe  to  Moneira's  sullen  rills ! 

Woe  to  Glenfinlas'  dreary  glen  ! 
There  never  son  of  Albin's  hills 

Shall  draw  the  hunter's  shaft  agen ! 

E'en  the  tired  pilgrim's  burning  feet 
At  noon  shall  shun  that  sheltering  den, 

Lest,  journeying  in  their  rage,  he  meet 
The  wayward  Ladies  of  the  Glen. 

And  we  —  behind  the  chieftain's  shield 
No  more  shall  we  in  safety  dwell ; 

None  leads  the  people  to  the  field  — 
And  we  the  loud  lament  must  swell. 

O  hone  a  rie' !  O  hone  a  rie' ! 

The  pride  of  Albin's  line  is  o'er ! 
And  fallen  Glenartney's  stateliest  tree  ; 

We  ne'er  shall  see  Lord  Ronald  more ! 


&\)e  3Sbe  of  Saint  3oj)n. 

The  Baron  of  Smaylho'me  rose  with  day, 

He  spurred  his  courser  on, 
Without  stop  or  stay,  down  the  rocky  way, 

That  leads  to  Brotherstone. 

He  went  not  with  the  bold  Buccleuch 

His  banner  broad  to  rear; 
He  went  not  'gainst  the  English  yew 

To  lift  the  Scottish  spear. 

Yet  his  plate-jack  was  braced  and  his  hel- 
met was  laced, 
And  his  vaunt-brace  of  proof  he  wore ; 
At    his    saddle-gerthe    was   a   good    steel 
s|)crthe, 
Full  ten  pound  weight  and  more. 

Tin   boron  returned  in  three  days' space, 
And  his  looks  were  sad  and  sour; 

And  weary  was  his  courser's  pace 
As  he  reached  his  rocky  tower. 

He  came  not  from  where  Ancram  Moor 
Ran  red  with  English  blood; 

uglas    true  and    the   bold 
(  cleuch 
'Gainst  keen  Lord  Evers  stood. 

rai  hia  helmet  hacked  and  hewed, 
acton  pierced  and  tore, 
e  and   his   dagger  with  blood  im- 
hi  ued, — 
But  it  was  not  English  gore. 


He  lighted  at  the  Chapellage, 

He  held  him  close  and  still ; 
And  he  whistled  thrice  for  his  little  foot- 
page, 

His  name  was  English  Will. 

'  Come  thou  hither,  my  little  foot-page, 

Come  hither  to  my  knee  ; 
Though  thou  art  young  and  tender  of  age, 

I  think  thou  art  true  to  me. 

'  Come,  tell  me  all  that  thou  hast  seen, 

And  look  thou  tell  me  true  ! 
Since  I  from  Smaylho'me  tower  have  been, 

What  did  thy  lady  do  ?  ' 

'My  lady,  each  night,  sought  the  lonely 
light 
That  burns  on  the  wild  Watchfold  ; 
For  from   height   to    height   the   beacons 
bright 
Of  the  English  foemen  told. 

1  The  bittern  clamored  from  the  moss, 
The  wind  blew  loud  and  shrill ; 

Yet  the  craggy  pathway  she  did  cross 
To  the  eiry  Beacon  Hill. 

'  I  watched  her  steps,  and  silent  came 
Where  she  sat  her  on  a  stone  ;  — 

No  watchman  stood  by  the  dreary  flame, 
It  burned  all  alone. 

'  The  second  night  I  kept  her  in  sight 

Till  to  the  fire  she  came, 
And,  by  Mary's  might !  an  armed  knight 

Stood  by  the  lonely  flame. 

'  And  many  a  word  that  warlike  lord 

Did  speak  to  my  lady  there  ; 
But  the  rain  fell  fast  and  loud  blew  the 
blast, 

And  I  heard  not  what  they  were. 

'  The  third  night  there  the  sky  was  fair, 
And  the  mountain-blast  was  still, 

As  again  I  watched  the  secret  pair 
On  the  lonesome  Beacon  Hill. 

'  And  I  heard  her  name  the  midnight  hour. 

And  name  this  holy  eve  ; 
And  say,  "Come  this  night  to  thy  lady's 
bower ; 

Ask  no  bold  baron's  leave. 

1 "  He  lifts  his  spear  with  the  bold  Buc- 
cleuch ; 

His  lady  is  all  alone ; 
The  door  she  '11  undo  to  her  knight  so  true 

On  the  eve  of  good  Saint  John." 


BALLADS. 


487 


*  "  I  cannot  come ;   I  must  not  come  ; 

I  dare  not  come  to  thee ; 
On  the  eve  of  Saint  John  I  must  wander 
alone : 
In  thy  bower  I  may  not  be." 

1 "  Now,  out  on  thee,  faint-hearted  knight ! 

Thou  shouldst  not  say  me  nay ; 
For  the  eve  is  sweet,  and  when  lovers  meet 

Is  worth  the  whole  summer's  day. 

'  "  And  I  '11  chain  the  blood-hound,  and  the 
warder  shall  not  sound, 
And  rushes  shall  be  strewed  on  the  stair  ; 
So,  by  the  black  rood-stone  and  by  holy 
Saint  John,  _^  %mm   r' 

I  conjure  thee,  my  love,  torbe  there  ! " 

*  "  Though  the  blood-hound  be  mute  and 

the  rush  beneath  my  foot, 
And   the  warder   his   bugle   should  not 

blow, 
Yet  there  sleepeth  a  priest  in  the  chamber 

to  the  east, 
And  my  footstep  he  would  know." 

4 "  O,  fear  not  the  priest  who  sleepeth  to 

the  east, 

For  to  Dryburgh  the  way  he  has  ta'en  ; 

And  there  to  say  mass,  till  three  days  do 

pass, 

For  the  soul  of  a  knight  that  is  slayne." 

'  He   turned    him   around   and   grimly   he 
frowned  : 
Then  he  laughed  right  scornfully  — 
"  He  who  says  the  mass-rite  for  the  soul  of 
that  knight 
May  as  well  say  mass  for  me : 

'"At  the  lone  midnight  hour  when  bad 
spirits  have  power 
In  thy  chamber  will  I  be."  — 
With  that  he  was  gone  and  my  lady  left 
alone, 
And  no  more  did  I  see.' 

Then    changed,     I    trow,   was    that    bold 
baron's  brow 
From  the  dark  to  the  blood-red  high  ; 

*  Now,  tell  me  the  mien  of  the  knight  thou 

hast  seen, 
For,  by  Mary,  he  shall  die  ! ' 

'  His  arms  shone  full  bright  in  the  beacon's 
red  light ; 
His  plume  it  was  scarlet  and  blue  ; 
On  his  shield  was  a  hound  in  a  silver  leash 
bound, 
And  his  crest  was  a  branch  of  the  yew.' 


1  Thou  liest,  thou  liest,  thou  little  foot-page, 

Loud  dost  thou  lie  to  me  ! 
For  that  knight  is  cold  and  low  laid  in  the 
mould, 

All  under  the  Eildon-tree.' 

'  Yet  hear  but  my  word,  my  noble  lord  ! 

For  I  heard  her  name  his  name ; 
And  that  lady  bright,  she  called  the  knight 

Sir  Richard  of  Coldinghame.' 

The  bold  baron's  brow  then  changed,  I  trow, 

From  high  blood-red  to  pale  — 
'  The  grave   is  deep  and  dark  —  and  the 

corpse  is  stiff  and  stark  — 
So  I  may  not  trust  thy  tale. 

'  Where  fair  Tweed  flows  round  holy  Mel- 
rose, 

And  Eildon  slopes  to  the  plain, 
Full  three  nights  ago  by  some  secret  foe 

That  gay  gallant  was  slain. 

1  The  varying  light  deceived  thy  sight, 
And  the  wild  winds  drowned  the  name ; 

For  the  Dryburgh  bells  ring  and  the  white 
monks  do  sing 
For  Sir  Richard  of  Coldinghame  ! ' 

He  passed  the  court-gate  and  he  oped  the 
tower-gate, 
And  he  mounted  the  narrow  stair 
To  the  bartizan-seat  where,  with  maids  that 
on  her  wait, 
He  found  his  lady  fair. 

That  lady  sat  in  mournful  mood ; 

Looked  over  hill  and  vale ; 
Over  Tweed's  fair  flood  and    Mertoun's 
wood, 

And  all  ddwri  Teviotdale. 

'  Nowjjjail,  now  hail,  thou  lady  bright ! ' 

'  Ndw  nail,  thou  baron  true  ! 
WhaTnews,  what  news,  from  Ancram  fight  ? 

What  news  from  the  bold  Buccleuch?' 

1  The  Ancram  moor  is  red  with  gore, 

For  many  a  Southern  fell ; 
And  Buccleuch  has  charged  us  evermore 

To  watch  our  beacons  well.' 

The  lady  blushed  red,   but    nothing    she 
said: 
Nor  added  the  baron  a  word : 
Then  she  stepped  down  the  stair  to  her 
chamber  fair, 
And  so  did  her  moody  lord. 


488 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL   WORKS. 


In  sleep  the  lady  mourned,  and  the  baron 
tossed  and  turned, 
And  oft  to  himself  he  said,  — 
'The  worms  around  him  creep,  and   his 
bloody  grave  is  deep  — 
It  cannot  give  up  the  dead  ! ' 

It  was  near  the  ringing  of  matin-bell, 
The  night  was  well-nigh  done, 

When  a  heavy  sleep  on  that  baron  fell, 
On  the  eve  of  good  Saint  John. 

The  lady  looked  through  the  chamber  fair 

By  the  light  of  a  dying  flame  ; 
And    she   was   aware  of    a  knight  stood 
there  — 

Sir  Richard  of  Coldinghame  ! 

'  Alas  !  away,  away  ! '  she  cried, 

'  For  the  holy  Virgin's  sake  ! ' 
'  Lady,  I  know  who  sleeps  by  thy  side  ; 

But,  lady,  he  will  not  awake. 

•  By  Eildon-tree  for  long  nights  three 

In  bloody  grave  have  I  lain; 
The  mass  and  the  death-prayer  are  said  for 
me, 
But,  lady,  they  are  said  in  vain. 

•  By  the  baron's  brand,  near  Tweed's  fair 

strand, 
Most  foully  slain  I  fell ; 
And   my  restless   sprite   on  the   beacon's 

height 
For  a  space  is  doomed  to  dwell. 

1  At  our  trysting-place,  for  a  certain  space, 

I  must  wander  to  and  fro ; 
But  I  had  not  had  power  to  come  to  thy 
bower 

I  I.ulst  thou  not  conjured  me  so.' 

Love     mastered     fear  —  her     brow     she 
crossed ; 

4  How,  Richard,  hast  thou  sped? 
And  art  thou  saved  or  art  thou  lost?  ' 

The  vision  shook  his  head  ! 

spillcth  life  shall  forfeit  life  ; 
So  bid  thy  lord  believe: 
That  lawless  love  is  guilt  above, 

This  awful  lign 

He  laid  his  left  palm  on  an  oaken  beam, 
right  upon  her  hand  : 

The  lady  shrunk  and  tainting  sunk, 
For  it  scorched  like-  a  fiery  brand. 


The  sable  score  of  fingers  four 
Remains  on  that  board  impressed ; 

And  forevermore  that  lady  wore 
A  covering  on  her  wrist. 

There  is  a  nun  in  Dryburgh  bower 
Ne'er  looks  upon  the  sun ; 

There  is  a  monk  in  Melrose  tower 
He  speaketh  word  to  none. 

That  nun  who  ne'er  beholds  the  day, 
That  monk  who  speaks  to  none  — 

That  nun  was  Smaylho'me's  lady  gay, 
That  monk  the  bold  baron. 


€alirj0tn  Castle. 

ADDRESSED     TO     THE     RIGHT     HONORABLE     LADY 
ANNE   HAMILTON. 

When  princely  Hamilton's  abode 
Ennobled  Cadyow's  Gothic  towers, 

The  song  went  round,  the  goblet  flowed, 
And  revel  sped  the  laughing  hours. 

Then,  thrilling  to  the  harp's  gay  sound, 
So  sweetly  rung  each  vaulted  wall, 

And  echoed  light  the  dancer's  bound, 
As  mirth  and  music  cheered  the  hall. 

But  Cadyow's  towers  in  ruins  laid, 
And  vaults  by  ivy  mantled  o'er, 

Thrill  to  the  music  of  the  shade, 
Or  echo  Evan's  hoarser  roar. 

Yet  still  of  Cadyow's  faded  fame 
You  bid  me  tell  a  minstrel  tale, 

And  tune  my  harp  of  Border  frame 
On  the  wild  banks  of  Evandale. 

For  thou,  from  scenes  of  courtly  pride, 
From   pleasure's    lighter  scenes,    canst 
turn, 

To  draw  oblivion's  pall  aside 
And  mark  the  long-forgotten  urn. 

Then,  noble  maid  !  at  thy  command 
Again  the  crumbled  halls  shall  rise  ; 

Lo  !  as  on  Evan's  banks  we  stand, 
The  past  returns  — the  present  flies. 

Where  with  the  rock's  wood-covered  side 
Were  blended  late  the  ruins  green, 

Rise  turrets  in  fantastic  pride 
And  feudal  banners  flaunt  between : 


BALLADS. 


489 


Where  the  rude  torrent's  brawling  course 
Was  shagged   with   thorn  and   tangling 
sloe, 

The  ashler  buttress  braves  its  force 
And  ramparts  frown  in  battled  row. 

'T  is  night  —  the  shade  of  keep  and  spire 
Obscurely  dance  on  Evan's  stream ; 

And  on  the  wave  the  warder's  fire 
Is  checkering  the  moonlight  beam. 

Fades  slow  their  light ;  the  east  is  gray ; 

The  weary  warder  leaves  his  tower; 
Steeds  snort,  uncoupled  stag-hounds  bay, 

And  merry  hunters  quit  the  bower. 

The  drawbridge  falls  — they  hurry  out  — 
Clatters  each  plank  and  swinging  chain, 

As,  dashing  o'er,  the  jovial  rout 

Urge  the  shy  steed  and  slack  the  rein. 

First  of  his  troop,  the  chief  rode  on; 

His  shouting  merry-men  throng  behind ; 
The  steed  of  princely  Hamilton 

Was  fleeter  than  the  mountain  wind. 

From  the  thick  copse  the  roebucks  bound, 
The  startled  red-deer  scuds  the  plain, 

For  the  hoarse  bugle's  warrior-sound 
Has  roused  their  mountain  haunts  again. 

Through  the  huge  oaks  of  Evandale, 

Whose  limbs  a  thousand  years  have  worn, 

What  sullen  roar  comes  down  the  gale 
And  drowns  the  hunter's  pealing  horn  ? 

Mightiest  of  all  the  beasts  of  chase 

That  roam  in  woody  Caledon, 
Crashing  the  forest  in  his  race, 

The  Mountain  Bull  comes  thundering  on. 

r 

Fierce  on  the  hunter's  quivered  band 
He  rolls  his  eyes  of  swarthy  glow, 

Spurns  with  black  hoof  and  horn  the  sand, 
And  tosses  high  his  mane  of  snow. 

Aimed  well  the  chieftain's  lance  has  flown ; 

Struggling  in  blood  the  savage  lies  ; 
His  roar  is  sunk  in  hollow  groan  — 

Sound,  merry  huntsmen  !  sound  thefiryse! 

'T  is  noon  —  against  the  knotted  oak 
The  hunters  rest  the  idle  spear ; 

Curls  through  the  trees  the  slender  smoke, 
Where  yeomen  dight  the  woodland  cheer. 

Proudly  the  chieftain  marked  his  clan, 
On  greenwood  lap  all  careless  thrown, 

Yet  missed  his  eye  the  boldest  man 
That  bore  the  name  of  Hamilton. 


'  Why  fills  not  Bothwellhaugh  his  place, 
Still  wont  our  weal  and  woe  to  share  ? 

Why  comes  he  not  our  sport  to  grace? 
Why  shares  he  not  our  hunter's  fare  ? ' 

Stern  Claud  replied  with  darkening  face  — 
Gray  Paisley's  haughty  lord  was  he  — 

1  At  merry  feast  or  buxom  chase 
No  more  the  warrior  wilt  thou  see. 

'  Few  suns  have  set  since  Woodhouselee 
Saw  Bothwellhaugh's  bright  goblets  foamr 

When  to  his  hearths  in  social  glee 

The  war-worn  soldier  turned  him  home. 

'There,  wan  from  her  maternal  throes, 
His  Margaret,  beautiful  and  mild, 

Sate  in  her  bower,  a  pallid  rose, 

And  peaceful  nursed  her  new-born  child. 

'  O  change  accursed !  past  are  those  days  ; 

False  Murray's  ruthless  spoilers  came, 
And,  for  the  hearth's  domestic  blaze, 

Ascends  destruction's  volumed  flame. 

'What  sheeted  phantom  wanders  wild 
Where  mountain  Eske  through  woodland 
flows, 

Her  arms  enfold  a  shadowy  child  — 
O  !  is  it  she,  the  pallid  rose  ? 

'  The  wildered  traveller  sees  her  glide, 
And  hears  her  feeble  voice  with  awe  — 

"  Revenge,"  she  cries,  "  on  Murray's  pride  1 
And  woe  for  injured  Bothwellhaugh  !  "  ' 

He  ceased  —  and  cries  of  rage  and  grief 
Burst  mingling  from  the  kindred  band, 

And  half  arose  the  kindling  chief, 

And  half  unsheathed  his  Arran  brand. 

But  who  o'er  bush,  o'er  stream  and  rock, 
Rides  headlong  with  resistless  speed, 

Whose  bloody  poniard's  frantic  stroke 
Drives  to  the  leap  his  jaded  steed ; 

Whose  cheek  is  pale,  whose  eyeballs  glare,. 

As  one  some  visioned  sight  that  saw, 
Whose  hands  are  bloody,  loose  his  hair?  — 

'T  is  he  !  't  is  he  !  't  is  Bothwellhaugh. 

From  gory  selle  and  reeling  steed 

Sprung  the  fierce  horseman  with  a  bound, 

And,  reeking  from  the  recent  deed, 
He  dashed  his  carbine  on  the  ground. 

Sternly  he  spoke  —  "T  is  sweet  to  hear 
In  good  greenwood  the  bugle  blown, 

But  sweeter  to  Revenge's  ear 
To  drink  a  tyrant's  dying  groan. 


490 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


'  Your  slaughtered  quarry  proudly  trode 
At  dawning  morn  o'er  dale  and  down, 

But  prouder  base-born  Murray  rode 

Through  old  Linlithgow's  crowded  town. 

*  From  the  wild  Border's  humbled  side, 

In  haughty  triumph  marched  he, 
While  Knox  relaxed  his  bigot  pride 
And  smiled  the  traitorous  pomp  to  see. 

*  But  can  stern  Power,  with  all  his  vaunt, 

Pomp,  with  all  her  courtly  glare, 

The  settled  heart  of  Vengeance  daunt, 

Or  change  the  purpose  of  Despair  ? 

4  With  hackbut  bent,  my  secret  stand, 
Dark  as  the  purposed  deed,  I  chose, 

And  marked  where  mingling  in  his  banc! 
Trooped    Scottish    pipes    and    English 
bon 

*  Dark  Morton,  girt  with  many  a  spear, 

Murder's  foul  minion,  led  tne  van; 
And  <  lashed  their  broadswords  in  the  rear 
The  wild  Macfarlanes'  plaided  clan. 


'  Glencairn  and  stout  Parkhead  were  nigh, 
Obsequious  at  their  Regent's  rein, 

And  haggard  Lindesay's  iron  eye. 
That  saw  fair  Mary  weep  in  vain. 

'  Mid  pennoned  spears,  a  steely  grove, 
Proud  Murray's  plumage  floated  high  ; 

Scarce  could  his  trampling  charger  move, 
So  close  the  minions  crowded  nigh. 

1  From  the  raised  vizor's  shade  his  eye, 
Dark-rolling,  glanced  the  ranks  along, 

And  his  steel  truncheon,  waved  on  high, 
Seemed  marshalling  the  iron  throng. 

•  But  yet  his  saddened  brow  confessed 

A  passing  shade  of  doubt  and  awe  ; 
Some  fiend  was  whispering  in  his  breast, 
"  Beware  of  injured  Bothwellhaugh  ! " 

*  The  death-shot  parts !  the  charger  springs  ; 

Wild  rises  tumult's  startling  roar  ! 
And  Murray's  plumy  helmet  rings  — 
Rings  on  the  ground  to  rise  no  more. 


BALLADS. 


491 


•  What  joy  the  raptured  youth  can  feel, 

To  hear  her  love  the  loved  one  tell  — 
Or  he  who  broaches  on  his  steel 
The  wolf  by  whom  his  infant  fell ! 

1  But  dearer  to  my  injured  eye 

To  see  in  dust  proud  Murray  roll ; 

And  mine  was  ten  times  trebled  joy 
To  hear  him  groan  his  felon  soul. 

4  My  Margaret's  spectre  glided  near, 
With  pride  her  bleeding  victim  saw, 

And  shrieked  in  his  death-deafened  ear, 
"  Remember  injured  Bothwellhaugh  !  " 

*  Then  speed  thee,  noble  Chatlerault ! 

Spread  to  the  wind  thy  bannered  tree ! 
Each  warrior  bend  his  Clydesdale  bow  !  - 
Murray  is  fallen  and  Scotland  free  ! ' 

Vaults  every  warrior  to  his  steed  ; 

Loud  bugles  join  their  wild  acclaim  — 


'  Murray  is  fallen  and  Scotland  freed! 
Couch,  Arran,  couch  thy  spear  of  flame  ! ' 

But  see  !  the  minstrel  vision  fails  — 

The  glimmering  spears  are  seen  no  more ; 

The  shouts  of  war  die  on  the  gales, 
Or  sink  in  Evan's  lonely  roar. 

For  the  loud  bugle  pealing  high, 

The  blackbird  whistles  down  the  vale, 

And  sunk  in  ivied  ruins  lie 

The  bannered  towers  of  Evandale. 

For  chiefs  intent  on  bloody  deed, 

And  Vengeance  shouting  o'er  the  slain, 

Lo !  high-born  Beauty  rules  the  steed, 
Or  graceful  guides  the  silken  rein. 

And  long  may  Peace  and  Pleasure  own 
The  maids  who  list  the  minstrel's  tale ; 

Nor  e'er  a  ruder  guest  be  known 
On  the  fair  banks  of  Evandale  ! 


Jffltscelianeous  $oems- 

IN   THE  ORDER  OF  THEIR  COMPOSITION   OR   PUBLICATION. 


5Tje  HioUt. 

[i/97-l 

The  violet  in  her  greenwood  bower, 

Where  birchen  boudis  with  hazels  mingle, 

May  boast  itself  the  fairest  flower 
In  glen  or  copse  or  forest  dingle. 

Though  fair  her  gems  of  azure  hue, 

Beneath  the  dewdrop's  weight  reclining, 

I  've  seen  an  eye  of  lovelier  blue, 
More  sweet  through  watery  lustre  shining. 

The  summer  sun  that  dew  shall  dry 
Ere  yet  the  day  be  past  its  morrow, 

Nor  longer  in  my  false  love's  eye 
Remained  the  tear  of  parting  sorrow. 


Ea  a  Hatjg. 

WITH    FLOWERS   FROM   A    ROMAN    WALL. 
[I797-] 

Take  these  flowers  which,  purple  waving, 

On  the  ruined  rampart  grew, 
Where,  the  sons  of  freedom  braving, 

Koine's  imperial  standards  flew. 

Warriors  from  the  breach  of  danger 
Pluck  no  longer  laurels  there; 

They  but  vivid  the  passing  stranger 
Wild-flower  wreaths  for  Beauty's  hair. 


QTjje  Barb's  Encantatton. 

WRITTEN    UNDER   THE   THREAT  OF   INVASION    IN 
AUTUMN   OF    1804. 

Tin    forest  of  (ilenmore  is  drear, 

It  is  all  of  black  pine  and  the  dark  oak- 

And  the  midnight  w  ind  to  the  mountain  deer 


Is  whistling  the  forest  lullaby: 
The  moon  looks  through  the  drifting  storm, 
But  the  troubled  lake  reflects  not  her  form, 
For  the  waves  roll  whitening  to  the  land, 
And  dash  against  the  shelvy  strand. 

There  is  a  voice  among  the  trees 

That  mingles  with  the  groaning  oak  — 
That  mingles  with  the  stormy  breeze, 
And  the  lake-waves  dashing  against  the 
rock ;  — 
There  is  a  voice  within  the  wood, 
The  voice  of  the  bard  in  fitful  mood ; 
His  song  was  louder  than  the  blast, 
As  the  bard  of  Glenmore  through  the  forest 
past. 

'  Wake  ye  from  your  sleep  of  death, 

Minstrels  and  bards  of  other  days  ! 
For  the  midnight  wind  is  on  the  heath, 

And  the  midnight  meteors  dimly  blaze: 
The  Spectre  with  his  Bloody  Hand 
Is  wandering  through  the  wild  woodland; 
The  owl  and  the  raven  are  mute  for  dread, 
And  the  time  is  meet  to  awake  the  dead  ! 

'  Souls  of  the  mighty,  wake  and  say 
To  what  high  strain  your  harps  were 
strung, 
When  Lochlin  ploughed  her  billowy  way 
And  on   your   shores    her    Norsemen 
flung? 
Her  Norsemen  trained  to  spoil  and  blood, 
Skilled  to  prepare  the  raven's  food, 
All  by  your  harpings  doomed  to  die 
On  bloody  Largs  and  Loncarty. 

'  Mute  are  ye  all  ?     No  murmurs  strange 

Upon  the  midnight  breeze  sail  by, 
Nor   through   the   pines  with    whistling 
change 
Mimic  the  harp's  wild  harmony ! 
Mute  are  ye  now?  —  Ye  ne'er  were  mute 
When  Murder  with  his  bloody  foot, 
And  Rapine  with  his  iron  hand, 
Were  hovering  near  yon  mountain  strand. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


493 


4  O,  yet  awake  the  strain  to  tell, 

By  every  deed  in  song  enrolled, 
By  every  chief  who  fought  or  fell, 

For  Albion's  weal  in  battle  bold :  — 
From  Coilgach,  first  who  rolled  his  car 
Through  the  deep  ranks  of  Roman  war, 
To  him  of  veteran  memory  dear 
Who  victor  died  on  Aboukir. 

*  By  all  their  swords,  by  all  their  scars, 

By  all,  their  names,  a  mighty  spell ! 
By  all  their  wounds,  by  all  their  wars, 

Arise,  the  mighty  strain  to  tell ! 
For  fiercer  than  fierce  Hengist's  strain, 
More  impious  than  the  heathen  Dane, 
More  grasping  than  all-grasping  Rome, 
Gaul's  ravening  legions  hither  come  ! ' 

The  wind  is  hushed  and  still  the  lake  — 
Strange  murmurs  fill  my  tinkling  ears, 

Bristles  my  hair,  my  sinews  quake,. 
At  the  dread  voice  of  other  years  — 

*  When  targets  clashed  and  bugles  rung, 
And  blades  round  warriors'  heads  were 

flung, 
The  foremost  of  the  band  were  we 
And  hymned  the  joys  of  Liberty ! ' 


ftell&ellgn. 

[1805.] 

I  climbed  the  dark  brow  of  the  mighty 
Hellvellyn, 
Lakes  and  mountains  beneath  me  gleamed 
misty  and  wide ; 

All  was  still  save  by  fits,  when  the  eagle 
was  yelling, 
And    starting    around    me    the    echoes 
replied. 

On  the  right,  Striden-edge  round  the  Red- 
tarn  was  bending, 

And   Catchedicam  its  left  verge  was  de- 
fending, 

One  huge  nameless  rock  in  the  front  was 
ascending, 
When  I  marked  the  sad  spot  where  the 
wanderer  had  died. 

Dark  green  was  that  spot  mid  the  brown 
mountain  heather, 
Where  the  Pilgrim  of  Nature  lay  stretched 
in  decay, 
Like  the  corpse  of  an  outcast  abandoned 
to  weather 
Till  the  mountain- winds  wasted  the  ten- 
antless  clay. 


Nor  yet  quite  deserted,  though  lonely  ex- 
tended, 

For,  faithful   in  death,  his  mute   favorite 
attended, 

The   much-loved  remains   of   her    master 
defended, 
And  chased  the  hill-fox  and  the  raven 
away. 

How  long  didst  thou  think  that  his  silence 

was  slumber  ? 
When  the  wind  waved  his  garment,  how 

oft  didst  thou  start  ? 
How  many  long  days  and  long  weeks  didst 

thou  number, 
Ere  he  faded  before  thee,  the  friend  of 

thy  heart? 
And  O,    was    it  meet    that  —  no   requiem 

read  o'er  him, 
No  mother  to  weep  and  no  friend  to  deplore 

him, 
And  thou,  little  guardian,  alone  stretched 

before  him  — 
Unhonored  the  Pilgrim  from  life  should 

depart  ? 

When  a  prince  to  the  fate  of  the  peasant 

has  yielded, 
The  tapestry  waves  dark  round  the  dim- 
lighted  hall : 
With    scutcheons   of    silver  the   coffin  is 

shielded, 
And  pages  stand  mute  by  the  canopied 

pall: 
Through  the  courts  at  deep  midnight  the 

torches  are  gleaming; 
In  the  proudly  arched  chapel  the  banners 

are  beaming ; 
Far  adown  the  long  aisle  sacred  music  is 

streaming, 
Lamenting  a  chief  of  the  people  should 

fall. 


But  meeter  for  thee,  gentle  lover  of  na- 
ture, 
To   lay  down   thy  head   like   the  meek 
mountain  lamb, 

When  wildered  he  drops  from  some  cliff 
huge  in  stature, 
And  draws  his  last  sob  by  the  side  of  his 
dam. 

And  more  stately  thy  couch  by  this  desert 
lake  lying, 

Thy  obsequies  sung  by  the  gray  plover 
flying, 

With  one  faithful  friend  but  to  witness  thy 
dying 
In  the  arms  of  Hellvellyn  and  Catche- 
dicam. 


494 


scorrs  poetical  works. 


[1806.] 

Air  —  "  Daffydz  Gang-wen." 

Dinas  Emlinn,  lament ;  for  the  moment  is 
nigh, 

When  mute  in  the  woodlands  thine  echoes 
shall  die  : 

No  more  by  sweet  Teivi  Cadwallon  shall 
rave, 

And  mix  his  wild  notes  with  the  wild  dash- 
ing wave. 

In  spring  and  in  autumn  thy  glories  of 
shade 

Unhonored  shall  flourish,  unhonored  shall 
fade  ; 

For  soon  shall  be  lifeless  the  eye  and  the 
tongue 

That  viewed  them  with  rapture,  with  rap- 
ture that  sung. 

Thy  sons,  Dinas  Emlinn,  may  march  in 

their  pride, 
And  chase  the  proud  Saxon  from  Prestatyn's 

side; 
But  where  is  the  harp  shall  give  life  to  their 

name? 
And  where  is  the  bard  shall  give  heroes 

their  fame  ? 

And  O,  Dinas  Emlinn  !  thy  daughters  so 

fair, 
Who  heave  the  white  bosom  and  wave  the 

dark  hair ; 
What  tuneful  enthusiast  shall  worship  their 

eye, 
When  half  of  their  charms  with  Cadwallon 

shall  die  ? 


Then  adieu,  silver  Teivi !  I  quit  thy  loved 

scene 
To  join  the  dim  choir  of  the  bards  who 

have  been ; 
With  Lewarch,  and  Meilor,  and  Merlin  the 

Old, 
And  .sage  Taliessin,  high  harping  to  hold. 

And  adieu,  Dinas  Emlinn!  still  green  be 

thy  shades, 
Uocooqaered   thy  warriors  and  matchless 

thy  maids  ! 
And  thou  whose  faint  warblings  my  weak- 
r.iii  tell, 
II.  my  loved  harp!  my  last  treasure, 
well! 


QTfjc  Gorman  f^owe^Joe. 
[1806.] 

AlR  — "  The  War-Song  of  the  Men  of  Glamorgan." 

Red  glows  the  forge  in  Striguil's  bounds, 
And  hammers  din,  and  anvil  sounds, 
And  armorers  with  iron  toil 
Barb  many  a  steed  for  battle's  broil. 
Foul  fall  the  hand  which  bends  the  steel 
Around  the  courser's  thundering  heel, 
That  e'er  shall  dint  a  sable  wound 
On  fair  Glamorgan's  velvet  ground  ! 

From  Chepstow's  towers  ere  dawn  of  morn 
Was  heard  afar  the  bugle-horn, 
And  forth  in  banded  pomp  and  pride 
Stout  Clare  and  fiery  Neville  ride. 
They  swore   their  banners   broad   should 

gleam 
In  crimson  light  on  Rymny's  stream ; 
They  vowed  Caerphili's  sod  should  feel 
The  Norman  charger's  spurning  heel. 

And  sooth  they  swore  —  the  sun  arose, 
And  Rymny's  wave  with  crimson  glows  ; 
For  Clare's  red  banner,  floating  wide, 
Rolled  down  the  stream  to  Severn's  tide  ! 
And  sooth  they  vowed  —  the  trampled  green 
Showed  where  hot   Neville's  charge   had 

been : 
In  every  sable  hoof-tramp  stood 
A  Norman  horseman's  curdling  blood  ! 

Old  Chepstow's  brides  may  curse  the  toil 
That  armed  stout  Clare  for  Cambrian  broil ; 
Their  orphans  long  the  art  may  rue, 
For  Neville's  war-horse  forged  the  shoe. 
No  more  the  stamp  of  armed  steed 
Shall  dint  Glamorgan's  velvet  mead ; 
Nor  trace  be  there  in  early  spring 
Save  of  the  Fairies'  emerald  ring. 


&fje  JHafo  of  Cow. 

[1806.] 

O,  low  shone  the  sun  on  the  fair  lake  of 
Toro, 
And  weak  were  the  whispers  that  waved 
the  dark  wood, 
All  as  a  fair  maiden,  bewildered  in  sorrow, 
Sorely  sighed  to  the  breezes  and  wept  to 
the  flood. 
'  O  saints,  from  the  mansions  of  bliss  lowly 
bending ! 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


495 


Sweet  Virgin,  who  hearest  the  suppliant's 
cry ! 
Now  grant  my  petition  in  anguish  ascending, 
My  Henry  restore  or  let  Eleanor  die  ! ' 

All  distant  and  faint  were  the  sounds  of  the 
battle, 
With   the   breezes    they  rise,   with    the 
breezes  they  fail, 
Till  the  shout  and  the  groan  and  the  con- 
flict's dread  rattle, 
And  the  chase's  wild  clamor,  came  load- 
ing the  gale. 
Breathless  she  gazed  on  the  woodlands  so 
-   dreary; 

Slowly  approaching  a  warrior  was  seen  ; 
Life's  ebbing  tide  marked  his  footsteps  so 
weary, 
Cleft  was  his  helmet  and  woe  was  his  mien. 

'  O,  save  thee,  fair  maid,  for  our  armies  are 
flying ! 
O,  save  thee,  fair  maid,  for  thy  guardian 
is  low ! 
Deadly  cold  on  yon  heath  thy  brave  Henry 
is  lying, 
And    fast    through     the    woodland    ap- 
proaches the  foe.' 
Scarce  could  he  falter  the  tidings  of  sorrow, 
And   scarce   could   she   hear   them,   be- 
numbed with  despair : 
And  when  the  sun  sunk  on  the  sweet  lake 
of  Toro, 
Forever  he  set  to  the  Brave  and  the  Fair. 


BTfje  Palmer. 
[1806.] 

1  O,  open  the  door,  some  pity  to  show, 
Keen  blows  the  northern  wind  ! 

The  glen  is  white  with  the  drifted  snow, 
And  the  path  is  hard  to  find. 

'  No  outlaw  seeks  your  castle  gate, 
From  chasing  the  king's  deer, 

Though  even  an  outlaw's  wretched  state 
Might  claim  compassion  here. 

'  A  weary  Palmer,  worn  and  weak, 

I  wander  for  my  sin  ; 
O,  open,  for  Our  Lady's  sake  ! 

A  pilgrim's  blessing  win  ! 

'  I  '11  give  you  pardons  from  the  Pope, 
And  reliques  from  o'er  the  sea,  — 

Or  if  for  these  you  will  not  ope. 
Yet  open  for  charity. 


'  The  hare  is  crouching  in  her  form, 

The  hart  beside  the  hind  ; 
An  aged  man  amid  the  storm, 

No  shelter  can  I  find. 

'  You  hear  the  Ettrick's  sullen  roar, 
Dark,  deep,  and  strong  is  he, 

And  I  must  ford  the  Ettrick  o'er, 
Unless  you  pity  me. 

'  The  iron  gate  is  bolted  hard, 

At  which  I  knock  in  vain ; 
The  owner's  heart  is  closer  barred, 

Who  hears  me  thus  complain. 

1  Farewell,  farewell !  and  Mary  grant, 

When  old  and  frail  you  be, 
You  never  may  the  shelter  want 

That 's  now  denied  to  me.' 

The  ranger  on  his  couch  lay  warm, 
And  heard  him  plead  in  vain  ; 

But  oft  amid  December's  storm 
He  '11  hear  that  voice  again  : 

For  lo !  when  through  the  vapors  dank 
Morn  shone  on  Ettrick  fair, 

A  corpse  amid  the  alders  rank, 
The  Palmer  weltered  there. 


STJje  iHafo  of  &eftpatfj. 

[1806.] 

O,  lovers'  eyes  are  sharp  to  see, 

And  lovers'  ears  in  hearing ; 
And  love  in  life's  extremity 

Can  lend  an  hour  of  cheering. 
Disease  had  been  in  Mary's  bower, 

And  slow  decay  from  mourning, 
Though  now  she  sits  on  Neidpath's  tower 

To  watch  her  love's  returning. 

All  sunk  and  dim  her  eyes  so  bright, 

Her  form  decayed  by  pining, 
Till  through  her  wasted  hand  at  night 

You  saw  the  taper  shining ; 
By  fits,  a  sultry  hectic  hue 

Across  her  cheek  were  flying  ; 
By  fits,  so  ashy  pale  she  grew, 

Her  maidens  thought  her  dying. 

Yet  keenest  powers  to  see  and  hear 
Seemed  in  her  frame  residing ; 

Before  the  watch-dog  pricked  his  ear, 
She  heard  her  lover's  riding ; 


496 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL    WORKS. 


Ere  scarce  a  distant  form  was  kenned, 
She  knew,  and  waved  to  greet  him  : 

And  o'er  the  battlement  did  bend, 
As  on  the  wing  to  meet  him. 

He  came  —  he  passed  —  an  heedless  gaze, 

As  o'er  some  stranger  glancing; 
Her  welcome,  spoke  in  faltering  phrase, 

Lost  in  his  courser's  prancing  — 
The  castle  arch,  whose  hollow  tone 

Returns  each  whisper  spoken, 
Could  scarcely  catch  the  feeble  moan 

Which  told  her  heart  was  broken. 


OTantoertng  TCllte. 
[1806.] 

All  joy  was  bereft  me  the  day  that  you  left 
me, 
And  climbed  the  tall  vessel  to  sail  yon 
wide  sea; 
O  weary  betide  it !  I  wandered  beside  it, 
And  banned  it  for  parting  my  Willie  and 
me. 

Far  o'er  the  wave  hast  thou  followed  thy 
fortune, 
Oft  fought  the  squadrons  of  France  and 
of  Spain ; 
Ae   kiss   of    welcome 's   worth   twenty  at 
parting, 
Now  I  hae  gotten  my  Willie  again. 

When  the  sky  it  was  mirk,  and  the  winds 
they  were  wailing, 
I  sat  on  the  beach  wi'  the  tear  in  my  ee, 
And  thought  o'  the  bark  where  my  Willie 
was  sailing, 
And   wished  that  the  tempest  could  a' 
Maw  on  me. 

Now  that    thy  gallant    ship  rides  at  her 
mooring. 
\<>w   that  my  wanderer's  in  safety  at 
hame, 

to    me  were    the  wildest    winds' 

roaring. 

o'er  Inch-Keith  drove  the  dark 
ocean  faun 

When  the  lights  they  did  blaze,  and  the 
guns  they  did  rat 

h  heart  for  the  great 
victory, 


In  secret  I  wept  for  the  dangers  of  battle, 
And  thy  glory  itself  was  scarce  comfort 
to  me. 

But  now  shalt  thou  tell,  while  I  eagerly 
listen, 
Of  each  bold  adventure  and  every  brave 
scar; 
And  trust  me,  I  '11  smile,  though  my  een 
they  may  glisten, 
For  sweet  after  danger 's  the  tale  of  the 
war. 

And  O,  how  we  doubt  when  there  's  dis- 
tance 'tween  lovers, 
When  there  's  naething  to  speak  to  the 
heart  thro'  the  ee  ! 
How  often  the  kindest  and  warmest  prove 
rovers, 
And  the  love  of  the  faithfullest  ebbs  like 
the  sea ! 

Till,  at  times  —  could  I  help  it  ?  —  I  pined 
and  I  pondered 
If  love  could  change  notes  like  the  bird 
on  the  tree  — 
Now  I  '11  ne'er  ask  if  thine  eyes  may  hae 
wandered ; 
Enough,  thy  leal  heart  has  been  constant 
to  me. 

Welcome,   from    sweeping    o'er    sea   and 
through  channel, 
Hardships  and  danger  despising  for  fame, 
Furnishing  story  for  glory's  bright  annal, 
Welcome,  my  wanderer,  to  Jeanie  and 
hame ! 

Enough  now  thy  story  in  annals  of  glory 
Has  humbled  the  pride  of  France,  Hol- 
land, and  Spain ; 
No  more  shalt  thou  grieve  me,  no  more 
shalt  thou  leave  me, 
I  never  will  part  with  my  Willie  again. 


hunting   &0ng. 

[1808.] 

Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay, 

On  the  mountain  dawns  the  day, 

All  the  jolly  chase  is  here,     • 

With  hawk  and  horse  and  hunting-spear ! 

Hounds  are  in  their  couples  yelling, 

Hawks  are  whistling,  horns  are  knelling, 

Merrily,  merrily,  mingle  they, 

'  Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay.' 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


497 


Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay, 

The  mist  has  left  the  mountain  gray, 

Springlets  in  the  dawn  are  steaming. 

Diamonds  on  the  brake  are  gleaming  : 

And  foresters  have  busy  been 

To  track  the  buck  in  thicket  green ; 

Now  we  come  to  chant  our  lay, 

'  Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay.' 

Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay, 
To  the  green-wood  haste  away ; 
We  can  show  you  where, he  lies, 
Fleet  of  foot  and  tall  of  size ; 
We  can  show  the  marks  he  made, 
When  'gainst  the  oak  his  antlers  frayed ; 
You  shall  see  him  brought  to  bay, 
*  Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay.' 

Louder,  louder  chant  the  lay, 
Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay  ! 
Tell  them  youth  and  mirth  and  glee 
Run  a  course  as  well  as  we ; 
Time,  stern  huntsman,  who  can  balk, 
Stanch  as  hound  and  fleet  as  hawk  ? 
Think  of  this  and  rise  with  day, 
Gentle  lords  and  ladies  gay. 


Song. 

[180S.] 

O,  say  not,  my  love,  with  that  mortified  air, 
That  your  spring-time  of  pleasure  is  flown, 

Nor   bid   me   to  maids   that  are   younger 
repair 
For  those  raptures  that  still  are  thine  own. 

Though  April  his  temples  may  wreathe  with 
the  vine, 
Its  tendrils  in  infancy  curled, 
'T  is  the  ardor  of  August  matures  us  the 
wine 
Whose  life-blood  enlivens  the  world. 


Though  thy  form  that  was  fashioned  as 
light  as  a  fay's 
Has  assumed  a  proportion  more  round, 
And  thy  glance  that  was  bright  as  a  falcon's 
at  gaze 
Looks  soberly  now  on  the  ground,  — 

Enough,  after  absence  to  meet  me  again 
Thy  steps  still  with  ecstasy  move ; 

Enough,   that    those   dear    sober 
retain 
For  me  the  kind  language  of  love. 


glances 


Che  ifagolbe. 


IN   IMITATION   OF  AN  OLD   ENGLISH   POEM. 
[l809.] 

My  wayward  fate  I  needs  must  plain, 

Though  bootless  be  the  theme ; 
I  loved  and  was  beloved  again, 

Yet  all  was  but  a  dream  : 
For,  as  her  love  was  quickly  got, 

So  it  was  quickly  gone  ; 
No  more  I  '11  bask  in  flame  so  hot, 

But  coldly  dwell  alone. 

Not  maid  more  bright  than  maid  was  e'er 

My  fancy  shall  beguile, 
By  flattering  word  or  feigned  tear, 

By  gesture,  look,  or  smile  : 
No  more  I  '11  call  the  shaft  fair  shot, 

Till  it  has  fairly  flown, 
Nor  scorch  me  at  a  flame  so  hot  — 

I  '11  rather  freeze  alone. 

Each  ambushed  Cupid  I  '11  defy 

In  cheek  or  chin  or  brow, 
And  deem  the  glance  of  woman's  eye 

As  weak  as  woman's  vow : 
I  '11  lightly  hold  the  lady's  heart, 

That  is  but  lightly  won  ; 
I  '11  steel  my  breast  to  beauty's  art, 

And  learn  to  live  alone. 


The  flaunting  torch  soon  blazes  out, 

The  diamond's  ray  abides ; 
The  flame  its  glory  hurls  about, 

The  gem  its  lustre  hides ; 
Such  gem  I  fondly  deemed  was  mine, 

And  glowed  a  diamond  stone, 
But,  since  each  eye  may  see  it  shine, 

I  '11  darkling  dwell  alone. 

No  waking  dreams  shall  tinge  my  thought 

With  dyes  so  bright  and  vain, 
No  silken  net  so  slightly  wrought 

Shall  tangle  me  again : 
No  more  I  '11  pay  so  dear  for  wit, 

I  '11  live  upon  mine  own, 
Nor  shall  wild  passion  trouble  it, — 

I  '11  rather  dwell  alone. 

And  thus  I  '11  hush  my  heart  to  rest,  — 

'  Thy  loving  labor 's  lost ; 
Thou  shalt  no  more  be  wildly  blest, 

To  be  so  strangely  crost : 
The  widowed  turtles  mateless  die, 

The  phoenix  is  but  one  ; 
They  seek  no  loves  —  no  more  will  I  — 

I  '11  rather  dwell  alone.' 


V- 


498 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL    WORKS. 


IHpitapfj 

DESIGNED  FOR  A  MONUMENT  IN  LICHFIELD 
CATHEDRAL,  AT  THE  BURIAL-PLACE  OF  THE 
FAMILY   OF   MISS   SEWARD. 

[l8o9.] 

Amid  these  aisles  where  once  his  precepts 
showed 

The  heavenward  pathway  which  in  life  he 
trode, 

This  simple  tablet  marks  a  Father's  bier, 

And  those  he  loved  in  life  in  death  are  near ; 

For  him,  for  them,  a  Daughter  bade  it  rise, 

Memorial  of  domestic  charities. 

Still  wouldst  thou  know  why  o'er  the  mar- 
ble spread 

In  female  grace  the  willow  droops  her  head ; 

Why  on  her  branches,  silent  and  unstrung, 

The  minstrel  harp  is  emblematic  hung  ; 

What  poet's  voice  is  smothered  here  in  dust* 

Till  waked  to  join  the  chorus  of  the  just,  — 

Lo  !  one  brief  line  an  answer  sad  supplies, 

Honored,  beloved,  and  mourned,  here 
Seward  lies ! 

Her  worth,  her  warmth  of  heart,  let  friend- 
ship say,  — 

Go  seek  her  genius  in  her  living  lay. 


prologue 

TO   MISS    HAILLIE'S   PLAY  OK   "THE   FAMILY 
LEGEND." 

[.809.] 

weet  to  hear  expiring  Summer's  sigh, 
Through  forests  tinged  with  russet,  wail 
and  die; 

weet  and  sad  the  latest  notes  to  hear 
<  )f  distant  music,  dying  on  the  ear ; 
But  far  more  sadly  sweet  on  foreign  strand 
We  list  the  legends  of  our  native  land, 
Linked  as  they  come  with  every  tender  tie, 
Memorials  dear  of  youth  and  infancy. 

Chief  thy  wild  tales,  romantic  Caledon, 
Wake  keen  remembrance  in   each   hardy 

son. 

Whether  on  India's  burning  coasts  he  toil 

Or  till  Aeadia's  wink  1  lettered  soil, 

II-    bean  with  throbbing  heart  and  mois- 

ten< 
And,  1  ^.  what  dear  illusions  rise  ! 

It  opens  on  his  soul  his  native  dell, 
The  woods   wild  waving  and  the  water's 

swell  : 


Tradition's  theme,  the  tower   that  threats 

the  plain, 
The  mossy  cairn  that  hides  the  hero  slain ; 
The  cot  beneath  whose  simple  porch  were 

told 
By  gray-haired  patriarch  the  tales  of  old, 
The  infant  group  that  hushed  their  sports 

the  while, 
And  the  dear  maid  who  listened  with  a 

smile. 
The  wanderer,  while  the  vision  warms  his 

brain, 
Is  denizen  of  Scotland  once  again. 


Are  such  keen   feelings   to   the   crowd 
confined, 
And  sleep  they  in  the  poet's  gifted  mind  ? 
O  no  !     For  she,  within  whose  mighty  page 
Each  tyrant  Passion  shows  his  woe  and 

rage, 
Has  felt  the  wizard  influence  they  inspire, 
And  to  your  own  traditions  tuned  her  lyre. 
Yourselves  shall  judge  —  whoe'er  has  raised 

the  sail 
By  Mull's  dark  coast  has  heard  this  even- 
ing's tale. 
The  plaided  boatman,  resting  on  his  oar, 
Points  to  the  fatal  rock  amid  the  roar 
Of  whitening  waves,   and    tells   whate'er 

to-night 
Our  humble  stage  shall  offer  to  your  sight ; 
Proudly  preferred  that  first  our  efforts  give 
Scenes  glowing  from  her  pen  to  breathe 

and  live; 
More  proudly  yet,  should  Caledon  approve 
The  filial  token  of  a  daughter's  love. 


3T{k  Poarfjer. 

WRITTEN    IN   IMITATION   OF  CRABBE,    AND    PUBLISHED   IN 
THE   EDINBURGH   ANNUAL   REGISTER   OF   1809. 

Welcome,  grave  stranger,   to  our  green 

retreats 
Where  health  with  exercise  and  freedom 

meets ! 
Thrice  welcome,  sage,  whose  philosophic 

plan 
By  nature's  limits  metes  the  rights  of  man  ; 
Generous  as  he  who  now  for  freedom  bawls, 
Now    gives    full  value    for    true    Indian 

shawls : 
O'er  court,  o'er  custom-house,  his  shoe  who 

flmgs, 
Now  bilks  excisemen  and  now  bullies  kings. 
Like  his,  I  ween,  thy  comprehensive  mind 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


499 


Holds  laws  as  mouse-traps  baited  for  man- 
kind : 
Thine  eye  applausive  each  sly  vermin  sees, 
That  balks  the  snare  yet  battens  on  the 

cheese ; 
Thine  ear  has  heard  with  scorn  instead  of 

awe 
Our  buckskinned  justices  expound  the  law, 
Wire-draw  the  acts  that  fix  for  wires  the 

pain, 
And   for  the   netted   partridge  noose   the 

swain  ; 
And  thy  vindictive  arm  would  fain  have 

broke 
The  last  light  fetter  of  the  feudal  yoke, 
To  give  the  denizens  of  wood  and  wild, 
Nature's  free  race,  to  each   her  free-born 

child. 
Hence  hast   thou  marked   with  grief  fair 

London's  race, 
Mocked  with  the  boon  of  one  poor  Easter 

chase, 
And  longed  to  send  them  forth  as  free  as 

when 
Poured  o'er  Chantilly  the  Parisian  train, 
When  musket,   pistol,   blunderbuss,   com- 
bined, 
And   scarce  the  field-pieces  were  left  be- 
hind ! 
A  squadron's  charge  each  leveret's  heart 

dismayed, 
On  every  covey  fired  a  bold  brigade ; 
La  Douce  Humanite  approved  the  sport, 
For  great  the  alarm  indeed,  yet  small  the 

hurt; 
Shouts  patriotic  solemnized  the  day, 
And  Seine  re-echoed  Vive  la  Liberie  / 
But  mad  Citoyen,  meek  Monsieur  again, 
With  some  few  added  links  resumes  his 

chain. 
Then,  since  such  scenes  to  France  no  more 

are  known, 
Come,  view  with  me  a  hero  of  thine  own, 
One    whose    free    actions    vindicate    the 

cause 
Of  sylvan  liberty  o'er  feudal  laws. 

Seek  we  yon  glades  where  the  proud  oak 

o'ertops 
Wide-waving  seas  of  birch  and  hazel  copse, 
Leaving  between  deserted  isles  of  land 
Where  stunted  heath  is  patched  with  ruddy 

sand, 
And  lonely  on  the  waste  the  yew  is  seen, 
Or   straggling    hollies    spread    a   brighter 

green. 
Here,  little  worn  and  winding  dark  and 

steep, 
Our    scarce    marked    path    descends    yon 

dingle  deep : 


Follow  —  but  heedful,  cautious  of  a  trip  — 
In  earthly  mire  philosophy  may  slip. 
Step  slow  and  wary  o'er  that  swampy  stream, 
Till,  guided  by  the  charcoal's  smothering 

steam, 
We  reach  the  frail  yet  barricaded  door 
Of  hovel  formed  for  poorest  of  the  poor  ; 
No  hearth  the  fire,  no  vent  the  smoke  re- 
ceives, 
The   walls   are  wattles   and   the  covering 

leaves ; 
For,  if  such  hut,  our  forest  statutes  say, 
Rise  in  the  progress  of  one  night  and  day  — 
Though  placed  where  still  the  Conqueror's 

hests  o'erawe, 
And  his  son's  stirrup  shines  the  badge  of 

law  — 
The  builder  claims  the  unenviable  boon, 
To  tenant  dwelling,  framed  as  slight  and 

soon 
As  wigwam  wild  that  shrouds  the  native 

frore 
On  the  bleak  coast  of  frost-barred  Labrador. 

Approach    and   through   the    unlatticed 

window  peep  — 
Nay,  shrink  not  back,  the  inmate  is  asleep  \ 
Sunk  mid  yon  sordid  blankets  till  the  sun 
Stoop  to  the  west,  the  plunderer's  toils  are 

done. 
Loaded  and  primed  and  prompt  for  desper- 
ate hand, 
Rifle  and  fowling-piece  beside  him  stand ; 
While  round  the  hut  are  in  disorder  laid 
The  tools  and  booty  of  his  lawless  trade ; 
For  force  or  fraud,  resistance  or  escape, 
The  crow,  the  saw,  the  bludgeon,  and  the 

crape. 
His  pilfered  powder  in  yon  nook  he  hoards, 
And   the   filched    lead    the   church's   roof 

affords  — 
Hence  shall  the  rector's  congregation  fret, 
That  while  his  sermon 's  dry  his  walls  are 

wet. 
The  fish-spear  barbed,  the  sweeping  net  are 

there, 
Doe-hides,  and  pheasant  plumes,  and  skins 

of  hare, 
Cordage  for  toils  and  wiring  for  the  snare. 
Bartered  for  game  from  chase  or  warren 

won, 
Yon  cask  holds  moonlight,  run  when  moon 

was  none ; 
And  late-snatched  spoils  lie  stowed  in  hutch 

apart 
To  wait  the  associate  higgler's  evening  cart. 

Look  on  his  pallet  foul  and  mark  his  rest : 
What  scenes  perturbed  are  acting  in  his 
breast ! 


500 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


His   sable   brow  is   wet   and  wrung  with 

pain. 
And  his  dilated  nostril  toils  in  vain : 
For  short  and  scant  the  breath  each  effort 

draws, 
And  'twixt   each   effort   Nature   claims   a 

pause. 
Beyond    the    loose    and    sable    neckcloth 

stretched, 
His   sinewy  throat  seems    by   convulsion 

twitched, 
While  the  tongue  falters,  as  to  utterance 

loath, 
Sounds  of  dire  import  —  watchword,  threat, 

and  oath. 
Though,  stupefied  by  toil  and  drugged  with 

The  body  sleep,  the  restless  guest  within 
Now  plies  on  wood  and  wold  his  lawless 

trade, 
Now  in   the  fangs  of  justice  wakes  dis- 
mayed. — 

'  Was  that  wild  start  of  terror  and  despair, 
Those  bursting  eyeballs  and  that  wildered 

air, 
Signs  of  compunction  for  a  murdered  hare  ? 
Do  the   locks   bristle   and  the    eyebrows 

arch 
For    grouse    or    partridge    massacred    in 

March?' 

No,  scoffer,  no !     Attend,  and  mark  with 

awe, 
There  is  no  wicket  in  the  gate  of  law  ! 
lit  that  would  e'er  so  lightly.set  ajar 
That  awful  portal  must  undo  each  bar : 
Tempting  occasion,  habit,  passion,  pride, 
Will  join  to  storm  the  breach  and  force  the 

barrier  wide. 

That  ruffian,  whom  true  men  avoid  and 

drear  I. 
Whom  bruisers,  poachers,  smugglers,  call 

Blai  k  Ned, 

rd  Mansell  once ;  —  the  lightest 

bean  & 

Thai  ever  played  on  holiday  his  part! 
The  leader  he  in  every  Christmas  game, 
The    harvest-least  grew   blither  when   he 

came, 
And   liveliest   on   the  chords   the  bow  did 

glance 

id  named  the  tune  and  led  the 

dan 

Kind  was  his  heart,  his  passions  quick  and 

Ins  bus*,  and  jovial  was  his  song; 
And  it  he  loved  a  gun.  hi.s  father  swore, 


•  'T  was  but  a  trick  of  youth  would  soon  be 

o'er, 
Himself  had  done  the  same  some  thirty 

years  before.' 

But  he  whose  humors  spurn  law's  awful 
yoke 
Must  herd  with  those  by  whom  law's  bonds 

are  broke ; 
The  common  dread  of  justice  soon  allies 
The  clown  who  robs  the  warren  or  excise 
With  sterner  felons  trained   to  act  more 

dread, 
Even  with  the  wretch  by  whom  his  fellow 

bled. 
Then,  as  in  plagues  the  foul  contagions  pass, 
Leavening  and  festering  the  corrupted  mass, 
Guilt  leagues  with  guilt  while  mutual  mo- 
tives draw, 
Their  hope  impunity,  their  fear  the  law  ; 
Their  foes,  their  friends,  their  rendezvous 

the  same, 
Till  the  revenue  balked  or  pilfered  game 
Flesh  the  young  culprit,  and  example  leads 
To  darker  villany  and  direr  deeds. 

Wild  howled  the  wind  the  forest  glades 

along, 
And  oft  the  owl  renewed  her  dismal  song; 
Around   the  spot  where  erst  he  felt  the 

wound, 
Red  William's  spectre  walked  his  midnight 

round. 
When  o'er  the  swamp  he  cast  his  blighting 

look, 
From  the  green  marshes  of  the  stagnant 

brook 
The  bittern's  sullen  shout  the  sedges  shook  ! 
The   waning   moon    with    storm-presaging 

gleam 
Now  gave  and  now  withheld  her  doubtful 

beam  ; 
The  old  Oak  stooped  his  arms,  then  flung 

them  high, 
Bellowing  and  groaning  to   the   troubled 

sky  — 
'T  was  then  that,  couched  amid  the  brush- 
wood sear, 
In  Malwood-walk  young  Mansell  watched 

the  deer: 
The  fattest  buck  received  his  deadly  shot  — 
The  watchful  keeper  heard  and  sought  the 

spot. 
Stout  were  their  hearts,  and  stubborn  was 

their  strife  ;  r 

O'erpowered  at  length  the    Outlaw  drew 

his  knife. 
Next,  morn  a  corpse  was  found  upon  the 

fell  — 
The  rest  his  waking  agony  may  tell ! 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


50I 


Wni  Boltj   ©ragoon; 

OR,  THE   PLAIN   OF   BADAJOS. 
[1812.] 

'T  was  a  Marechal  of  France,  and  he  fain 

would  honor  gain, 
And  he  longed  to  take  a  passing  glance  at 
Portugal  from  Spain ; 
With  his  flying  guns  this  gallant  gay, 
And  boasted  corps  d'arme'e  — 
O,  he  feared  not  our  dragoons  with  their 
long  swords  boldly  riding, 
Whack,  fal  de  ral,  etc. 

To  Campo  Mayor  come,  he  had  quietly  sat 

down, 
Just  a  fricassee  to  pick  while  his  soldiers 
sacked  the  town, 
When,   't  was  peste  !     morbleu  !  mon 

General, 
Hear  the  English  bugle-call ! 
And  behold  the  light  dragoons  with  their 
long  swords  boldly  riding, 
Whack,  fal  de  ral,  etc. 

Right  about  went  horse  and  foot,  artillery 

and  all, 
And,  as  the  devil  leaves  a  house,  they  tum- 
bled through  the  wall; 
They  took  no  time  to  seek  the  door, 
But,  best  foot  set  before  — 
O,  they  ran  from  our  dragoons  with  their 
long  swords  boldly  riding, 
Whack,  fal  de  ral,  etc. 

Those   valiant   men   of   France   they   had 

scarcely  fled  a  mile, 
When  on  their  flank  there  soused  at  once 
the  British  rank  and  file ; 
For  Long,  De  Grey,  and  Otway  then 
Ne'er  minded  one  to  ten, 
But  came  on  like  light  dragoons  with  their 
long  swords  boldly  riding, 
Whack,  fal  de  ral,  etc. 

Three   hundred    British   lads    they   made 

three  thousand  reel, 
Their  hearts  were   made  of  English  oak, 
their  swords  of  Sheffield  steel, 
Their  horses  were  in  Yorkshire  bred, 
And  Beresford  them  led; 
So  huzza  for   brave   dragoons   with   their 
long  swords  boldly  riding, 
Whack,  fal  de  ral,  etc. 

Then   here's   a  health  to   Wellington,  to 

Beresford,  to  Long, 
And  a  single  word  of  Bonaparte  before  I 

close  my  song; 


The  eagles  that  to  fight  he  brings 
Should  serve  his  men  with  wings, 
When  they  meet  the  bold  dragoons  with 
their  long  swords  boldly  riding, 
Whack,  fal  de  ral,  etc. 


On  tfje  flags  acre  of  (glntcae. 

[1814.] 

'  O,  tell  me,  Harper,  wherefore  flow 
Thy  wayward  notes  of  wail  and  woe 
Far  down  the  desert  of  Glencoe, 

Where  none  may  list  their  melody  ? 
Say,  harp'st  thou  to  the  mists  that  fly, 
Or  to  the  dun-deer  glancing  by, 
Or  to  the  eagle  that  from  high 

Screams  chorus  to  thy  minstrelsy  ? ' 

1  No,  not  to  these,  for  they  have  rest,  — 
The  mist-wreath  has  the  mountain-crest, 
The  stag  his  lair,  the  erne  her  nest, 

Abode  of  lone  security. 
But  those  for  whom  I  pour  the  lay, 
Not  wild-wood  deep  nor  mountain  gray, 
Not  this  deep  dell  that  shrouds  from  day, 

Could  screen  from  treacherous  cruelty. 

'  Their  flag  was  furled  and  mute  their  drum, 
The  very  household  dogs  were  dumb, 
Unwont  to  bay  at  guests  that  come 

In  guise  of  hospitality. 
His  blithest  notes  the  piper  plied, 
Her  gayest  snood  the  maiden  tied, 
The  dame  her  distaff  flung  aside 

To  tend  her  kindly  housewifery. 

1  The  hand  that  mingled  in  the  meal 
At  midnight  drew  the  felon  steel, 
And  gave  the  host's  kind  breast  to  feel 

Meed  for  his  hospitality ! 
The  friendly  hearth  which  warmed  that  hand 
At  midnight  armed  it  with  the  brand 
That  bade  destruction's  flames  expand 

Their  red  and  fearful  blazonry. 


'  Then  woman's  shriek  was  heard  in  vain, 

Nor  infancy's  unpitied  plain, 

More  than  the  warrior's  groan,  could  gain 

Respite  from  ruthless  butchery  ! 
The  winter  wind  that  whistled  shrill, 
The  snows  that  night  that  cloked  the  hill, 
Though  wild  and  pitiless,  had  still 

Far  more  than  Southern  clemency. 


502 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL   WORKS. 


4  Long  have  my  harp's  best  notes  been  gone, 
Few  are  its  strings  and  faint  their  tone, 
They  can  but  sound  in  desert  lone 

Their  gray-haired  master's  miserv. 
Were  each  gray  hair  a  minstrel  string, 
Each  chord  should  imprecations  fling, 
Till  startled  Scotland  loud  should  ring, 

"  Revenge  for  blood  and  treachery  !  "  ' 


Song 

FOR  THE  ANNIVERSARY    MEETING   OF  THE 
PITT  CLUB   OF  SCOTLAND. 

[1814.] 

O,  dread  was  the  time,  and  more  dreadful 
the  omen, 
When  the  brave  on  Marengo  lay  slaugh- 
tered in  vain, 
And  beholding  broad  Europe  bowed  down 
by  her  foemen, 
Pitt  closed  in  his  anguish  the  map  of 
her  reign ! 
Not  the  fate  of  broad  Europe  could  bend 
his  brave  spirit 
To  take  for  his  country   the   safety  of 
shame ; 
O,  then  in  her  triumph  remember  his  merit, 
And  hallow  the  goblet  that  flows  to  his 
name. 

Round  the  husbandman's  head  while  he 
traces  the  furrow 
The  mists  of  the  winter  may  mingle  with 
rain, 
He  may  plough  it  with  labor  and  sow  it  in 
sorrow, 
And  sigh  while  he  fears  he  has  sowed  it 
in  vain  : 
He  may  die  ere  his  children  shall  reap  in 
their  gladness, 
Hut   the   blithe   harvest-home   shall  •  re- 
member his  claim ; 
And  their  jubilee-shout  shall  be  softened 
with  sadness, 
While  they  hallow  the  goblet  that  flows 
to  his  name. 

Though  anxious  and  timeless  his  life  was 
pended, 
In  toils  tor  our  country  preserved  by  his 
care, 
h  he  died  ere  one  ray  o'er  the  nations 

.(led. 

To  Ughl  the  long  darkness  of  doubt  and 


The  storms  he  endured  in  our   Britain's 
December, 
The    perils    his    wisdom    foresaw    and 
o'ercame, 
In  her  glory's  rich  harvest  shall  Britain 
remember, 
And  hallow  the  goblet  that  flows  to  his 
name. 

Nor  forget  His  gray  head  who,  all  dark  in 
affliction, 
Is  deaf  to  the  tale  of  our  victories  won, 
And  to  sounds  the  most  dear  to  paternal 
affection, 
The  shout  of  his  people  applauding  his 
Son; 
By  his  firmness  unmoved  in  success  and 
disaster, 
By  his  long  reign  of  virtue,  remember  his 
claim ! 
With  our  tribute  to  Pitt  join  the  praise  of 
his  Master, 
Though  a  tear  stain  the  goblet  that  flows 
to  his  name. 

Yet  again  fill  the  wine-cup  and  change  the 
sad  measure, 
The  rites  of  our  grief  and  our  gratitude 
paid, 
To  our  Prince,  to  our  Heroes,  devote  the 
bright  treasure. 
The  wisdom  that  planned,  and  the  zeal 
that  obeyed ! 
Fill  Wellington's  cup  till  it  beam  like  his 
glory, 
Forget  not  our  own  brave  Dalhousie 
and  Graeme  ; 
A  thousand  years  hence  hearts  shall  bound 
at  their  story, 
And  hallow  the  goblet  that  flows  to  their 
fame. 


ILmes 


ADDRESSED  TO   RANALD   MACDONALD,  ESQ., 
OF   STAFFA. 

[1814.] 

Staffa,  sprung  from  high  Macdonald, 
Worthy  branch  of  old  Clan-Ranald  ! 
Staffa  !  king  of  all  kind  fellows  ! 
Well  befall  thy  hills  and  valleys,  « 

Lakes  and  inlets,  deeps  and  shallows  — 
Cliffs  of  darkness,  caves  of  wonder, 
Echoing  the  Atlantic  thunder; 
Mountains  which  the  gray  mist  covers, 
Where  the  Chieftain  spirit  hovers, 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


503 


Pausing  while  his  pinions  quiver, 
Stretched  to  quit  our  land  forever ! 
Each  kind  influence  reign  above  thee  ! 
Warmer  heart  'twixt  this  and  Staffa 
Beats  not  than  in  heart  of  Staffa  ! 


PJaros  iLoquftur. 

[1814.] 

Far  in  the  bosom  of  the  deep, 

O'er  these  wild  shelves  my  watch  I  keep; 

A  ruddy  gem  of  changeful  light, 

Bound  on  the  dusky  brow  of  night, 

The  seaman  bids  my  lustre  hail, 

And  scorns  to  strike  his  timorous  sail. 


ILettera  in  Ferge. 

ON  THE  VOYAGE  WITH  THE  COMMISSIONERS 
OF  NORTHERN   LIGHTS. 

Co  |^ts  ©race  tlje  ©ufce  of  Bucclntdj. 

Lighthouse  Yacht  in  the  Sound  of  Lerwick, 
Zetland,  8th  August,  1814. 

Health  to  the  chieftain  from  his  clans- 
man true ! 

From  her  true  minstrel,  health  to  fair 
Buccleuch  ! 

Health  from  the  isles  where  dewy  Morning 
weaves 

Her  chaplet  with  the  tints  that  Twilight 
leaves  ; 

Where  late  the  sun  scarce  vanished  from 
the  sight, 

And  his  bright  pathway  graced  the  short- 
lived night, 

Though  darker  now  as  autumn's  shades 
extend 

The  north  winds  whistle  and  the  mists 
ascend ! 

Health  from  the  land  where  eddying  whirl- 
winds toss 

The  storm-rocked  cradle  of  the  Cape  of 
Noss  ; 

On  outstretched  cords  the  giddy  engine 
slides, 

His  own  strong  arm  the  bold  adventurer 
guides, 

And  he  that  lists  such  desperate  feat  to  try 

May,  like  the  sea-mew,  skim  'twixt  surf 
and  sky, 


And   feel   the   mid-air   gales   around    him 

blow, 
And  see  the  billows  rage  five  hundred  feet 

below. 

Here,  by  each  stormy  peak  and  desert 

shore, 
The  hardy  islesman  tugs  the  daring  oar, 
Practised   alike   his   venturous    course    to 

keep 
Through  the  white  breakers  or  the  pathless 

deep, 
By  ceaseless  peril  and  by  toil  to  gain 
A  wretched  pittance  from  the  niggard  main. 
And  when  the  worn-out  drudge  old  ocean 

leaves, 
What  comfort  greets  him  and   what  hut 

receives  ? 
Lady!    the  worst  your  presence  ere  has 

cheered  — 
When  want   and  sorrow  fled  as   you  ap- 
peared — 
Were  to  a  Zetlander  as  the  high  dome 
Of  proud  Drumlanrig  to  my  humble  home. 
Here  rise  no  groves  and  here  no  gardens 

blow, 
Here  even  the  hardy  heath  scarce  dares 

to  grow ; 
But  rocks  on   rocks,  in  mist  and  storm 

arrayed, 
Stretch  far  to  sea  their  giant  colonnade, 
With  many  a  cavern  seamed,  the  dreary 

haunt 
Of  the  dun  seal  and  swarthy  cormorant. 
Wild  round  their  rifted  brows,  with  frequent 

cry 
As  of  lament,  the  gulls  and  gannets  fly, 
And  from  their  sable    base   with   sullen 

sound 
In  sheets  of  whitening  foam  the  waves 

rebound. 

Yet  even  these  coasts  a  touch  of  envy 

gain 
From  those  whose  land  has  known  oppres- 
sion's chain; 
For  here  the  industrious  Dutchman  comes 

once  more 
To   moor  his   fishing  craft  by   Bressay's 

shore, 
Greets  every  former  mate  and  brother  tar, 
Marvels  how  Lerwick  'scaped  the  rage  of 

war, 
Tells  many  a  tale  of  Gallic  outrage  done, 
And  ends  by  blessing  God  and  Wellington. 
Here    too    the    Greenland    tar,    a   fiercer 

guest, 
Claims  a  brief  hour  of  riot,  not  of  rest ; 
Proves  each  wild  frolic  that  in  wine  has 

birth, 


504 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL    WORKS. 


And  wakes  the  land  with  brawls  and  bois- 
terous mirth. 
A  sadder  sight  on  yon  poor  vessel's  prow 
The  captive  Norseman  sits  in  silent  woe, 
And  eyes  the  flags  of  Britain  as  they  flow. 
Hard  fate  of  war,  which  bade  her  terrors 

sway 
His  destined  course  and  seize  so  mean  a 

prey, 
A  bark  with  planks  so  warped  and  seams 

so  riven 
She  scarce  might  face  the  gentlest  airs  of 

heaven : 
Pensive  he  sits,  and  questions  oft  if  none 
Can  list  his   speech  and   understand  his 

moan; 
In  vain  —  no  Islesman  now  can  use  the 

tongue 
Of  the  bold  Norse  from  whom  their  lineage 

sprung. 
Not  thus  of  old  the  Norsemen  hither  came, 
Won  by  the  love  of  danger  or  of  fame  ; 
On    every  storm-beat    cape   a    shapeless 

tower 
Tells  of  their  wars,  their  conquests,  and 

their  power ; 
For   ne'er  for  Grecia's  vales  nor   Latian 

land 
Was   fiercer  strife   than    for  this    barren 

strand ; 
A  race  severe,  the  isle  and  ocean  lords 
Loved  for  its   own  delight  the   strife   of 

swords ; 
With  scornful  laugh  the  mortal  pang  defied, 
And  blest  their  gods  that  they  in  battle 

died. 


Such  were  the  sires  of  Zetland's  simple 

race, 
And  still  the  eye  may  faint  resemblance 

trace 
In  the  blue  eye,  tall  form,  proportion  fair, 
The  limbs  athletic,  and  the  long  light  hair- 
Such  was  the  mien,  as  Scald  and  Minstrel 

tings, 
Of   fair-haired   Harold,  first  of   Norway's 

Kings;  — 
But  their  high  deeds  to  scale  these  crags 

confined. 
Their  only  welfare  is  with  waves  and  wind. 

Why  should    I   talk  of   Mousa's   castle 
con 
Why  of  the  horrors  of  the  Sunburgh  Rost? 
.ild  disjointed  lines  suffice,' 
Penned  while  my  comrades  whirl  the  rat- 
tling dice  — 
While  down  the  cabin  skylight  lessening 

shine  6 


The  rays,  and  eve  is  chased  with  mirth  and 

wine  ? 
Imagined,    while     down    Mousa's    desert 

bay 
Our  well-trimmed  vessel  urged  her  nimble 

way, 
While  to  the  freshening  breeze  she  leaned 

her  side, 
And  bade,  her  bowsprit  kiss  the  foamy  tide  ? 

Such    are   the    lays   that   Zetland    Isles 
supply ; 
Drenched  with  the  drizzly  spray  and  drop- 
ping sky, 
Weary  and  wet,  a  sea-sick  minstrel  I. 

W-  Scott. 


urn. 

Kirkwall,  Orkney,  Aug.  13,  1814. 

In  respect   that  your   Grace   has  com- 
missioned a  Kraken, 
You  will  please  be  informed  that  they  seldom 

are  taken ; 
It  is  January  two  years,  the  Zetland  folks 

say, 
Since  they  saw  the  last  Kraken  in  Scalloway 

bay; 
He  lay  in  the  offing  a  fortnight  or  more, 
But  the   devil   a  Zetlander  put  from  the 

shore, 
Though  bold  in  the  seas  of  the  North  to 

assail 
The  morse  and  the  sea-horse,  the  grampus 

and  whale. 
If  your  Grace  thinks  I  'm  writing  the  thing 

that  is  not, 
You  may  ask  at  a  namesake  of  ours,  Mr. 

Scott  — 
He  's  not  from  our  clan,  though  his  merits 

deserve  it, 
But  springs,  I  'm  informed,  from  the  Scotts 

of  Scotstarvet ;  — 
He  questioned  the  folks  who  beheld  it  with 

eyes, 
But  they  differed  confoundedly  as  to  its 

size. 
For    instance,   the    modest  and   diffident 

swore 
That  it  seemed  like  the  keel  of  a  ship  and 

no  more  — 
Those  of  eyesight  more  clear  or  of  fancy 

more  high 
Said  it  rose  like  an  island  'twixt  ocean  and 

sky  — 
But  ajl  of  the  hulk  had  a  steady  opinion 
That  t  was  sure  a  live  subject  of  Neptune's 

dominion  — 
And  I  think,  my  Lord  Duke,  your  Grace 

hardly  would  wish, 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


505 


To  cumber  your  house,  such  a  kettle  of 

fish. 
Had  your  order  related  to  night-caps   or 

hose 
Or  mittens  of  worsted,  there  's  plenty  of 

those. 
Or  would  you  be  pleased  but  to  fancy  a 

whale  ? 
And  direct  me  to  send  it — by  sea  or  by 

mail  ? 
The   season,   I  'm  told,  is   nigh  over,  but 

still 
I  could  get  you  one  fit  for  the  lake  at  Bow- 

hill.       y 
Indeed,  as  to  whales,  there  's  no  need  to 

be  thrifty, 
Since  one  day  last  fortnight  two  hundred 

and  fifty, 
Pursued  by  seven  Orkneymen's  boats  and 

no  more, 
Betwixt  Truffness  and  Luffness  were  drawn 

on  the  shore  ! 
You  '11  ask  if  I  saw  this  same  wonderful 

sight; 
I  own  that  I  did  not,  but  easily  might  — 
For  this  mighty  shoal  of  leviathans  lay 
On  our  lee-beam  a  mile,  in  the  loop  of  the 

bay, 
And  the  islesmen  of  Sanda  were  all  at  the 

spoil, 
And  flinching — so  term  it — the  blubber 

to  boil ;  — 
Ye  spirits  of  lavender,  drown  the   reflec- 
tion 
That  awakes  at  the  thoughts  of  this  odorous 

dissection.  — 
To  see  this  huge  marvel  full  fain  would  we 

But  Wilson,  the  wind,  and  the  current  said 

no. 
We  have  now  got  to  Kirkwall,  and  needs  I 

must  stare 
When  I  think  that  in  verse  I  have  once 

called  it  fair  ; 
'T  is  a  base  little  borough,  both  dirty  and 

mean  — 
There  is  nothing  to  hear  and  there  's  naught 

t,p  be  seen, 
Save  a  church  where  of  old  times  a  prelate 

harangued, 
And  a  palace  that 's  built  by  an  earl  that 

was  hanged. 
But  farewell  to  Kirkwall  —  aboard  we  are 

going* 
The  anchor's  a-peak  and  the  breezes  are 

blowing ; 
Our  commodore  calls  all  his  band  to  their 

places, 
And  'tis  time  to  release  you — good-night 

to  your  Graces ! 


jFareinell   to   fflachzn$iz, 

HIGH   CHIEF   OF   KINTAIL. 

FROM    THE  GAELIC. 
[I8l5.] 

Farewell  to  Mackenneth,  great  Earl  of 

the  North, 
The  Lord  of   Lochcarron,  Glenshiel,  and 

Seaforth  ; 
To  the  Chieftain  this  morning  his  course 

who  began, 
Launching  forth  on  the  billows  his  bark 

like  a  swan. 
For  a  far  foreign  land  he  has  hoisted  his 

sail, 
Farewell    to    Mackenzie,    High    Chief  of 

Kintail ! 


O,    swift    be    the    galley  and    hardy    her 

crew, 
May  her  captain  be  skilful,  her  mariners 

true, 
In  danger  undaunted,  unwearied  by  toil, 
Though  the  whirlwind  should  rise  and  the 

ocean  should  boil : 
On  the  brave  vessel's  gunnel  I  drank  his 

bonail, 
And  farewell  to  Mackenzie,  High  Chief  of 

Kintail ! 


Awake  in  thy  chamber,  thou  sweet  south- 
land gale  ! 

Like  the  sighs  of  his  people,  breathe  soft 
on  his  sail ; 

Be  prolonged  as  regret  that  his  vassals 
must  know, 

Be  fair  as  their  faith  and  sincere  as  their 
woe : 

Be  so  soft  and  so  fair  and  so  faithful,  sweet 
gale, 

Wafting  onward  Mackenzie,  High  Chief  of 
Kintail ! 


Be  his  pilot  experienced  and  trusty  and 

wise, 
To   measure   the   seas   and  to   study  the 

skies : 
May  he  hoist  all  his  canvas  from  streamer 

to  deck, 
But  O  !  crowd  it  higher  when  wafting  him 

back  — 
Till  the  cliffs  of  Skooroora  and   Conan's 

glad  vale 
Shall  welcome  Mackenzie,  High  Chief  of 

Kintail ! 


506 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Imitation 

OF   THE   PRECEDING   SONG. 

[1815.] 

So  sung  the  old  bard  in  the  grief  of  his 

heart 
When  he   saw  his    loved   lord   from  his 

people  depart. 
Now  mute  on  thy  mountains,  O  Albyn,  are 

heard 
Nor  the  voice  of  the  song  nor  the  harp  of 

the  bard ; 
Or  its  strings  are  but  waked  by  the  stern 

winter  gale, 
As  they  mourn  for  Mackenzie,  last  Chief 

of  Kintail. 

From  the  far  Southland  Border  a  minstrel 

came  forth, 
And  he  waited  the  hour  that  some  bard  of 

the  north 
His  hand  on  the  harp  of  the  ancient  should 

cast, 
And  bid  its  wild  numbers  mix  high  with 

the  blast; 
But  no  bard  was  there  left  in  the  land  of 

the  Gael 
To  lament  for   Mackenzie,  last   Chief  of 

Kintail. 

'And  shalt  thou  then  sleep,' did  the  min- 
strel exclaim, 

4  Like  the  son  of  the  lowly,  unnoticed  by 
fame? 

No,  son  of  Fitzgerald  !  in  accents  of  woe 

The  song  thou  hast  loved  o'er  thy  coffin 
shall  flow, 

And  teach  thy  wild  mountains  to  join  in 
the  wail 

That  laments  for  Mackenzie,  last  Chief  of 
Kintail. 

4  In  vain,  the  bright  course  of  thy  talents 

to  wrong, 
•  leadened  thine  ear  and  imprisoned 

thy  tongue; 
For  brighter  o'er  all  her  obstructions  arose 
The   glow  of  the  genius   they  could  not 

oppose; 
And  who  in  the  land  of  the  Saxon  or  Gael 
Might  match  with  Mackenzie,  High  Chief 

of  Kintail? 

•  Thy  sons  rose  around  thee  in  light  and  in 

All  a  father  could  hope,  all  a  friend  could 

appr< 
What    vails  it  the  tale  of  thy  sorrows  to 

tell,  — 


In  the  spring-time  of  youth  and  of  promise 

they  fell ! 
Of  the  line  of   Fitzgerald  remains  not  a 

male 
To  bear  the  proud  name  of  the  Chief  of 

Kintail. 


'  And  thou,  gentle  dame,  who  must  bear  to 

thy  grief 
For  thy  clan  and  thy  country  the  cares  of 

a  chief, 
Whom  brief  rolling  moons  in  six  changes 

have  left, 
Of  thy  husband  and  father  and  brethren 

bereft, 
To  thine  ear  of  affection  how  sad  is  the 

hail 
That  salutes  thee  the  heir  of  the  line  of 

Kintail ! ' 


lar=&ott(r  of  ILacfjlan, 

HIGH   CHIEF    OF    MACLEAN. 


FROM    THE    GAELIC. 


[I8l5.] 

A  weary  month  has  wandered  o'er 
Since  last  we  parted  on  the  shore  ; 
Heaven !  that  I  saw  thee,  love,  once  more, 

Safe  on  that  shore  again  !  — 
'T  was  valiant  Lachlan  gave  the  word : 
Lachlan,  of  many  a  galley  lord  : 
He  called  his  kindred  bands  on  board, 

And  launched  them  on  the  main. 


Clan-Gillian  is  to  ocean  gone  ; 
Clan-Gillian,  fierce  in  foray  known ; 
Rejoicing  in  the  glory  won 

In  many  a  bloody  broil : 
For  wide  is  heard  the  thundering  fray, 
The  rout,  the  ruin,  the  dismay, 
When  from  the  twilight  glens  away 

Clan-Gillian  drives  the  spoil. 


Woe  to  the  hills  that  shall  rebound 

Our  bannered  bag-pipes'  maddening  sound  ! 

Clan-Gillian's  onset  echoing  round, 

Shall  shake  their  inmost  cell. 
Woe  to  the  bark  whose  crew  shall  gaze 
Where  Lachlan's  silken  streamer  plays  ! 
The  fools  might  face  the  lightning's  blaze 

As  wisely  and  as  well ! 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


507 


Saint  CloutJ. 

[Paris,  5th  September,  181 5.] 

Soft  spread  the  southern  summer  night 

Her  veil  of  darksome  blue  ; 
Ten  thousand  stars  combined  to  light 

The  terrace  of  Saint  Cloud. 

The  evening  breezes  gently  sighed, 

Like  breath  of  lover  true, 
Bewailing  the  deserted  pride 

And  wreck  of  sweet  Saint  Cloud. 

The  drum's  deep  roll  was  heard  afar, 

The  bugle  wildly  blew 
Good-night  to  Hulan  and  Hussar 

That  garrison  Saint  Cloud. 

The  startled  Naiads  from  the  shade 

With  broken  urns  withdrew, 
And  silenced  was  that  proud  cascade, 

The  glory  of  Saint  Cloud. 

We  sate  upon  its  steps  of  stone, 

Nor  could  its  silence  rue, 
When  waked  to  music  of  our  own 

The  echoes  of  Saint  Cloud. 

Slow  Seine  might  hear  each  lovely  note 

Fall  light  as  summer  dew, 
While  through  the  moonless  air  they  float, 

Prolonged  from  fair  Saint  Cloud. 

And  sure  a  melody  more  sweet 

His  waters  never  knew, 
Though  music's  self  was  wont  to  meet 

With  princes  at  Saint  Cloud. 

Nor  then  with  more  delighted  ear 

The  circle  round  her  drew 
Than  ours,  when  gathered  round  to  hear 

Our  songstress  at  Saint  Cloud. 

Few  happy  hours  poor  mortals  pass,  — 
Then  give  those  hours  their  due, 

And  rank  among  the  foremost  class 
Our  evenings  at  Saint  Cloud. 


&fje  19ance  of  ©eat!). 
[1815.] 

Night  and  morning  were  at  meeting 

Over  Waterloo; 
Cocks  had  sung  their  earliest  greeting ; 

Faint  and  low  they  crew, 
For  no  paly  beam  yet  shone 


On  the  heights  of  Mount  Saint  John ; 
Tempest-clouds  prolonged  the  sway 
Of  timeless  darkness  over  day  ; 
Whirlwind,  thunder-clap,  and  shower 
Marked  it  a  predestined  hour. 
Broad  and  frequent  through  the  night 
Flashed  the  sheets  of  levin-light ; 
Muskets,  glancing  lightnings  back, 
Showed  the  dreary  bivouac 

Where  the  soldier  lay, 
Chill  and  stiff  and  drenched  with  rain, 
Wishing  dawn  of  morn  again, 

Though  death  should  come  with  day. 

'T  is  at  such  a  tide  and  hour 
Wizard,  witch,  and  fiend  have  power, 
And  ghastly  forms  through  mist  and  shower 

Gleam  on  the  gifted  ken ; 
And  then  the  affrighted  prophet's  ear 
Drinks  whispers  strange  of  fate  and  fear, 
Presaging  death  and  ruin  near 

Among  the  sons  of  men  ;  — 
Apart  from  Albyn's  war-array, 
'T  was  then  gray  Allan  sleepless  lay ; 
Gray  Allan,  who  for  many  a  day 

Had  followed  stout  and  stern, 
Where,  through  battle's  rout  and  reel, 
Storm  of  shot  and  edge  of  steel. 
Led  the  grandson  of  Lochiel, 

Valiant  Fassiefern. 
Through  steel  and  shot  he  leads  no  more, 
Low  laid  mid  friends'  and  foemen's  gore  — 
But  long  his  native  lake's  wild  shore, 
And  Sunart  rough,  and  high  Ardgower, 

And  Morven  long  shall  tell, 
And  proud  Bennevis  hear  with  awe, 
How  upon  bloody  Quatre-Bras 
Brave  Cameron  heard  the  wild  hurra 

Of  conquest  as  he  fell. 

Lone  on  the  outskirts  of  the  host, 

The  weary  sentinel  held  post, 

And  heard  through  darkness  far  aloof 

The  frequent  clang  of  courser's  hoof, 

Where  held  the  cloaked  patrol  their  course 

And  spurred   'gainst  storm  the  swerving 

horse ; 
But  there  are  sounds  in  Allan's  ear 
Patrol  nor  sentinel  may  hear, 
And  sights  before  his  eye  aghast 
Invisible  to  them  have  passed, 

When  down  the  destined  plain, 
'Twixt  Britain  and  the  bands  of  France, 
Wild  as  marsh-borne  meteor's  glance, 
Strange  phantoms  wheeled  a  revel  dance 

And  doomed  the  future  slain. 
Such  forms  were  seen,  such  sounds  were 

heard, 
When  Scotland's  James  his  march  prepared 

For  Flodden's  fatal  plain ; 


508 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL   WORKS. 


Such,  when  he  drew  his  ruthless  sword, 
As  Choosers  of  the  Slain,  adored 

The  yet  unchristened  Dane. 
An  indistinct  and  phantom  band, 
They  wheeled    their  ring-dance    hand   in 
hand 

With  gestures  wild  and  dread  ; 
The    Seer,   who  watched    them   ride   the 

storm, 
Saw  through  their  faint  and  shadowy  form 

The  lightning's  flash  more  red ; 
And  still  their  ghastly  roundelay 
Was  of  the  coming  battle-fray 

And  of  the  destined  dead. 

Song. 

Wheel  the  wild  dance 
While  lightnings  glance 

And  thunders  rattle  loud, 
And  call  the  brave 
To  bloody  grave, 

To  sleep  without  a  shroud. 

Our  airy  feet, 
So  light  and  fleet, 

They  do  not  bend  the  rye 
That  sinks  its  head  when  whirlwinds  rave, 
And  swells  again  in  eddying  wave 

As  each  wild  gust  blows  by  ; 
But  still  the  corn 
At  dawn  of  morn 

Our  fatal  steps  that  bore, 
At  eve  lies  waste, 
A  trampled  paste 

Of  blackening  mud  and  gore. 

Wheel  the  wild  dance 
While  lightnings  glance 

And  thunders  rattle  loud, 
And  call  the  brave 
To  bloody  grave, 

To  sleep  without  a  shroud. 

Wheel  the  wild  dance  ! 
Brave  sons  of  France, 

For  you  our  ring  makes  room  ; 
Make  space  full  wide 
For  martial  pride, 

For  banner,  spear,  and  plume. 
Approach,  draw  near, 
Proud  cuirassier! 

Room  for  the  men  of  steel ! 
Through  crest  and  plate 
The  broadsword's  weight 

Both  head  and  heart  shall  feel. 

Wheel  the  wild  dance 
While  lightnings  glance 
And  thunders  rattle  loud, 


And  call  the  brave 
To  bloody  grave, 

To  sleep  without  a  shroud. 

Sons  of  the  spear  ! 
You  feel  us  near 

In  many  a  ghastly  dream  ; 
With  fancy's  eye 
Our  forms  you  spy, 

And  hear  our  fatal  scream. 
With  clearer  sight 
Ere  falls  the  night, 

Just  when  to  weal  or  woe 
Your  disembodied  souls  take  flight 
On  trembling  wing  —  each  startled  sprite 

Our  choir  of  death  shall  know. 

Wheel  the  wild  dance 
While  lightnings  glance 

And  thunders  rattle  loud, 
And  call  the  brave 
To  bloody  grave, 

To  sleep  without  a  shroud. 

Burst,  ye  clouds,  in  tempest  showers. 
Redder  rain  shall  soon  be  ours  — 

See  the  east  grows  wan  — 
Yield  we  place  to  sterner  game, 
Ere  deadlier  bolts  and  direr  flame 
Shall  the  welkin's  thunders  shame  ; 
Elemental  rage  is  tame 

To  the  wrath  of  man. 

At  morn,  gray  Allan's  mates  with  awe 
Heard  of  the  visioned  sights  he  saw, 

The  legend  heard  him  say  ; 
But  the  Seer's  gifted  eye  was  dim, 
Deafened  his  ear  and  stark  his  limb, 

Ere  closed  that  bloody  day  — 
He  sleeps  far  from  his  Highland  heath,  — 
But  often  of  the  Dance  of  Death 

His  comrades  tell  the  tale, 
On  picquet-post  when  ebbs  the  night, 
And  waning  watch-fires  glow  less  bright. 

And  dawn  is  glimmering  pale. 


Romance  of  ©unois. 

FROM   THE   FRENCH. 
[I8l5.] 

It  was  Dunois,  the  young  and  brave,  was 

bound  for  Palestine, 
But  first  he  made  his  orisons  before  Saint 

Mary's  shrine : 
'  And  grant,  immortal  Queen  of  Heaven,' 

was  still  the  soldier's  prayer, 
'That  I  may  prove  the  bravest  knight  and 

love  the  fairest  fair.' 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


509 


His  oath  of  honor  on  the  shrine  he  graved 
it  with  his  sword, 

And  followed  to  the  Holy  Land  the  banner 
of  his  Lord ; 

Where,  faithful  to  his  noble  vow,  his  war- 
cry  filled  the  air, 

'Be  honored  aye  the  bravest  knight,  be- 
loved the  fairest  fair.' 

They  owed  the  conquest  to  his  arm,  and 
then  his  liege-lord  said, 

1  The  heart  that  has  for  honor  beat  by  bliss 
'must  be  repaid. 

My  daughter  Isabel  and  thdu  shall  be  a 
wedded  pair, 

For  thou  art  bravest  of  the  brave,  she  fair- 
est of  the  fair.' 


And  then  they  bound  the  holy  knot  before 
Saint  Mary's  shrine 

That  makes  a  paradise  on  earth,  if  hearts 
and  hands  combine ; 

And  every  lord  and  lady  bright  that  were 
in  chapel  there 

Cried,  '  Honored  be  the  bravest  knight,  be- 
loved the  fairest  fair ! ' 


&fje  CroubatJour. 

FROM    THE   SAME   COLLECTION. 
[1815.] 

Glowing  with  love,  on  fire  for  fame, 

A  Troubadour  that  hated  sorrow 
Beneath  his  lady's  window  came, 

And  thus  he  sung  his  last  good-morrow  : 
'  My  arm  it  is  my  country's  right, 

My  heart  is  in  my  true-love's  bower ; 
Gayly  for  love  and  fame  to  fight 

Befits  the  gallant  Troubadour.' 

And  while  he  marched  with  helm  on  head 

And  harp  in  hand,  the  descant  rung, 
As,  faithful  to  his  favorite  maid, 

The  minstrel-burden  still  he  sung : 
1  My  arm  it  is  my  country's  right, 

My  heart  is  in  my  lady's  bower; 
Resolved  for  love  and  fame  to  fight, 

I  come,  a  gallant  Troubadour.' 

Even  when  the  battle-roar  was  deep, 
With  dauntless  heart  he  hewed  his  way, 

Mid  splintering  lance  and  falchion-sweep, 
And  still  was  heard  his  warrior-lay : 


'  My  life  it  is  my  country's  right, 
My  heart  is  in  my  lady's  bower ; 

For  love  to  die,  for  fame  to  fight, 
Becomes  the  valiant  Troubadour.' 

Alas  !  upon  the  bloody  field 

He  fell  beneath  the  foeman's  glaive, 
But  still  reclining  on  his  shield, 

Expiring  sung  the  exulting  stave  : 
'  My  life  it  is  my  country's  right, 

My  heart  is  in  my  lady's  bower ; 
For  love  and  fame  to  fall  in  fight 

Becomes  the  valiant  Troubadour.' 


jFrom  tfje  JFrenrij. 

[1815.] 

It  chanced  that  Cupid  on  a  season, 
By  Fancy  urged,  resolved  to  wed, 

But  could  not  settle  whether  Reason 
Or  Folly  should  partake  his  bed. 

What  does  he  then  ?  —  Upon  my  life, 
'T  was  bad  example  for  a  deity  — 

He  takes  me  Reason  for  a  wife, 
And  Folly  for  his  hours  of  gayety. 

Though  thus  he  dealt  in  petty  treason, 
He  loved  them  both  in  equal  measure ; 

Fidelity  was  born  of  Reason, 
And  Folly  brought  to  bed  of  Pleasure. 


&flttg 

ON  THE  LIFTING  OF  THE  BANNER  OF  THE 
HOUSE  OF  BUCCLEUCH,  AT  A  GREAT  FOOT- 
BALL MATCH  ON  CARTERHAUGH. 

[1815.] 

From  the  brown  crest  of  Newark  its  sum- 
mons extending, 
Our  signal  is  waving  in  smoke  and  in 
flame  ; 
And  each  forester  blithe,  from  his  mountain 
descending, 
Bounds  light  o'er  the  heather  to  join  in 
the  game. 
Then  up  with  the  Banner,  let  forest 
winds  fan  her, 
She  has  blazed  over  Ettrick  eight 
ages  and  more  ; 
In  sport  we  '11  attend  her,  in  battle  de- 
fend her, 
With  heart  and  with  hand,  like  our 
fathers  before. 


5io 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL    WORKS. 


When  the  Southern  invader  spread  waste 
and  disorder, 
At  the  glance  of  her  crescents  he  paused 
and  withdrew, 
For  around  them  were  marshalled  the  pride 
of  the  Border, 
The  Flowers  of  the  Forest,  the  Bands  of 
Buccleuch. 

A  stripling's  weak  hand  to  our  revel  has 
borne  her, 
No  mail-glove  has  grasped  her,  no  spear 
men  surround; 
But  ere  a  bold  foeman  should  scathe  or 
should  scorn  her 
A  thousand  true  hearts  would  be  cold  on 
the  ground. 

We  forget  each  contention  of  civil  dissen- 
sion, 
And    hail,    like    our    brethren,    Home, 
Douglas,  and  Car  ■ 

And  El  i  IOT  and  Pringle  in  pastime  shall 
mingle, 
•me  in  peace  as  their  fathers  in 

W.ll 

Then  strip,  lads,  and  to  it,  though  sharp  be 
the  weather, 
And  ii  by  mischance  you  should  happen 
to' tall.  M 


There  are  worse  things  in  life  than  a  tum- 
ble on  heather, 
And  life  is  itself  but  a  game  at  foot-ball. 

And  when  it  is  over  we'll  drink  a  blithe 
measure 
To  each  laird  and  each  lady  that  wit- 
nessed our  fun, 
And  to  every  blithe  heart  that  took  part  in 
our  pleasure, 
To  the  lads  that  have  lost  and  the  lads 
that  have  won. 

May  the  Forest  still  flourish,  both  Borough 
and  Landward, 
From  the  hall  of  the  peer  to  the  herd's 
ingle-nook ; 
And  huzza !    my   brave   hearts,   for   Buc- 
cleuch and  his  standard, 
For  the  King  and  the  Country,  the  Clan 
and  the  Duke  ! 
Then  up  with  the  Banner,  let  forest 
winds  fan  her, 
She  has  blazed  over  Ettrick  eight 
ages  and  more  ; 
In  sport  we  '11  attend  her,  in  battle  de- 
fend her, 
With  heart  and  with  hand,  like  our 
fathers  before. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


511 


iLulIabg  oi  an  Infant  GTijief. 
[1815.1 

Air —  "  Cadul gn  lo." 

O,  hush  thee,   my  babie,  thy  sire  was  a 

knight, 
Thy  mother  a  lady  both  lovely  and  bright ; 
The  woods  and  the  glens,  from  the  towers 

which  we  see, 
They  all  are  belonging,  dear  babie,  to  thee. 
O  ho  ro,  i  ri  ri,  cadul  gu  lo, 
O  ho  ro,  i  ri  ri,  etc. 

O,  fear  not  the   bugle,  though   loudly  it 

blows, 
It  calls   but  the  warders  that  guard  thy 

repose ; 
Their  bows  would  be  bended,  their  blades 

would  be  red, 
Ere  the  step  of  a  foeman   draws  near  to 

thy  bed. 

O  ho  ro,  i  ri  ri,  etc. 

O,  hush  thee,  my  babie,  the  time  soon  will 

come, 
When  thy  sleep  shall  be  broken  by  trumpet 

and  drum  ; 
Then  hush  thee,  my  darling,  take  rest  while 

you  may, 
For  strife  comes  with  manhood  and  waking 

with  day. 

O  ho  ro,  i  ri  ri,  etc. 


aHje  Eeturn  to   mister. 

[1816.] 

Once  again,  —  but  how  changed  since  my 
wanderings  began  — 

I  have  heard  the  deep  voice  of  the  Lagan 
and  Bann, 

And  the  pines  of  Clanbrassil  resound  to 
the  roar 

That  wearies  the  echoes  of  fair  Tullamore. 

Alas  !  my  poor  bosom,  and  why  shouldst 
thou  burn ! 

With  the  scenes  of  my  youth  can  its  rap- 
tures return? 

Can  I  live  the  dear  life  of  delusion  again, 

That  flowed  when  these  echoes  first  mixed 
with  my  strain  ? 

It  was  then  that  around  me,  though  poor 

and  unknown, 
High   spells    of    mysterious    enchantment 

were  thrown  : 


The  streams  were  of  silver,  of  diamond  the 

dew, 
The  land  was  an  Eden,  for  fancy  was  new. 
I  had  heard  of  our  bards,  and  my  soul  was 

on  fire 
At  the  rush  of  their  verse  and  the  sweep 

of  their  lyre : 
To  me  't  was  not  legend  nor  tale  to  the 

ear, 
But  a  vision  of  noontide,  distinguished  and 

clear. 

Ultonia's  old  heroes  awoke  at  the  call, 
And  renewed  the  wild  pomp  of  the  chase 

and  the  hall ; 
And  the  standard  of  Fion  flashed  fierce 

from  on  high, 
Like  a  burst  of  the  sun  when  the  tempest 

is  nigh. 
It  seemed  that  the  harp  of  green  Erin  once 

more 
Could  renew  all  the  glories  she  boasted  of 

yore.  — 
Yet    why    at    remembrance,    fond    heart, 

shouldst  thou  burn  ? 
They  were   days  of  delusion  and  cannot 

return. 

But  was  she,  too,  a  phantom,  the  maid  who 

stood  by, 
And  listed  my  lay  while  she  turned  from 

mine  eye  ? 
Was  she,  too,  a  vision,  just   glancing   to 

view, 
Then  dispersed  in  the  sunbeam  or  melted 

to  dew  ? 
O,  would  it  had  been  so !  —  O,  would  that 

her  eye 
Had  been  but  a  star-glance  that  shot  through 

the  sky, 
And  her  voice  that  was  moulded  to  melody's 

thrill, 
Had  been  but. a  zephyr  that  sighed  and  was 

still ! 

O,  would  it  had  been  so!  —  not  then  this 

poor  heart 
Had  learned  the  sad  lesson,  to  love  and  to 

part ; 
To  bear  unassisted  its  burden  of  care, 
While  I  toiled  for  the  wealth  I  had  no  one 

to  share. 
Not  then  had  I  said,  when  life's  summer 

was  done 
And  the  hours  of  her  autumn  were  fast 

speeding  on, 
'Take  the  fame  and  the' riches  ye  brought 

in  your  train, 
And  restore  me  the  dream  of  my  spring- 
tide asrain.' 


512 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL   WORKS. 


Sock  of  f^eloean. 

[1816.] 

Air  —  "  A  Border  Melody." 

1  Why  weep  ye  by  the  tide,  ladie  ? 

Why  weep  ye  by  the  tide  ? 
I  '11  wed  ye  to  my  youngest  son, 

And  ye  sail  be  his  bride : 
And  ye  sail  be  his  bride,  ladie, 

Sae  comely  to  be  seen  '  — 
But  aye  she  loot  the  tears  down  fa' 

For  Jock  of  Hazeldean. 

1  Now  let  this  wilfu'  grief  be  done, 

And  dry  that  cheek  so  pale  ; 
Young  Frank  is  chief  of  Errington 

And  lord  of  Langley-dale ; 
His  step  is  first  in  peaceful  ha', 

His  sword  in  battle  keen'  — 
But  aye  she  loot  the  tears  down  fa' 

For  Jock  of  Hazeldean. 

*  A  chain  of  gold  ye  sail  not  lack, 

Nor  braid  to  bind  your  hair ; 
Nor  mettled  hound,  nor  managed  hawk, 

Nor  palfrey  fresh  and  fair; 
And  you,  the  foremost  o'  them  a', 

Shall  ride  our  forest  queen.'  — 
But  aye  she  loot  the  tears  down  fa' 

For  Jock  of  Hazeldean. 

The  kirk  was  decked  at  morning-tide, 

The  tapers  glimmered  fair  ; 
The  priest  and  bridegroom  wait  the  bride, 

And  dame  and  knight  are  there. 
They  sought  her  baith  by  bower  and  ha' ; 

The  ladie  was  not  seen  ! 
She  's  o'er  the  Border  and  awa' 

Wi'  Jock  of  Hazeldean. 


$ibrocf)   of  ©onalo   Biju. 

[1816.] 

Air  —  "  Piobair  0/  Donuil  Dkuidh." 

Pibroch  of  Donuil  Dhu, 

I'ihroch  of  Donuil, 
\V;ik(   thy  wild  voice  anew, 

Summon  Clan  Conuil. 
Come  away,  come  away, 

II. nk  to  the  summons  ! 
Come  in  your  war  array, 

Gentles  and  commons. 

Come  from  deep  glen  and 
From  mountain  so  rocky, 


The  war-pipe  and  pennon 

Are  at  Inverlochy. 
Come  every  hill-plaid  and 

True  heart  that  wears  one, 
Come  every  steel  blade  and 

Strong  hand  that  bears  one. 

Leave  untended  the  herd, 

The  flock  without  shelter ; 
Leave  the  corpse  uninterred, 

The  bride  at  the  altar ; 
Leave  the  deer,  leave  the  steer, 

Leave  nets  and  barges  : 
Come  with  your  fighting  gear, 

Broadswords  and  targes. 

Come  as  the  winds  come  when 

Forests  are  rended ; 
Come  as  the  waves  come  when 

Navies  are  stranded : 
Faster  come,  faster  come, 

Faster  and  faster, 
Chief,  vassal,  page  and  groom, 

Tenant  and  master. 

Fast  they  come,  fast  they  come ; 

See  how  they  gather  ! 
Wide  waves  the  eagle  plume, 

Blended  with  heather. 
Cast  your  plaids,  draw  your  blades, 

Forward  each  man  set ! 
Pibroch  of  Donuil  Dhu, 

Knell  for  the  onset ! 


iftora'g  Uofo. 

WRITTEN    FOR   ALBYN'S   ANTHOLOGY. 

[1816.] 
Air  —  "  Cha  teid  mis  a  chaoidh. " 

Hear  what  Highland  Nora  said, 
'  The  Earlie's  son  I  will  not  wed, 
Should  all  the  race  of  nature  die 
And  none  be  left  but  he  and  I. 
For  all  the  gold,  for  all  the  gear, 
And  all  the  lands  both  far  and  near, 
That  ever  valor  lost  or  won, 
I  would  not  wed  the  Earlie's  son.' 

'A  maiden's  vows,'  old  Callum  spoke, 
1  Are  lightly  made  and  lightly  broke  ; 
The  heather  on  the  mountain's  height 
Begins  to  bloom  in  purple  light ; 
The  frost-wind  soon  shall  sweep  away 
That  lustre  deep  from  glen  and  brae ; 
Yet  Nora  ere  its  bloom  be  gone 
May  blithely  wed  the  Earlie's  son.' 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


513 


'The  swan,'  she  said,  'the  lake's  clear  breast 
May  barter  for  the  eagle's  nest ; 
The  Awe's  fierce  stream  may  backward  turn, 
Ben-Cruaichan  fall  and  crush  Kilchurn; 
Our  kilted  clans  when  blood  is  high 
Before  their  foes  may  turn  and  fly ; 
But  I,  were  all  these  marvels  done, 
Would  never  wed  the  Earlie's  son/ 


Still  in  the  water-lily's  shade 
Her  wonted  nest  the  wild-swan  made ; 
Ben-Cruaichan  stands  as  fast  as  ever, 
Still    downward  foams   the    Awe's   fierce 

river ; 
To  shun  the  clash  of  foeman's  steel 
No  Highland  brogue  has  turned  the  heel ; 
But  Nora's  heart  is  lost  and  won  — 
She  's  wedded  to  the  Earlie's  son  ! 


iliac Orepr's  @atjjermtj. 

WRITTEN    FOR    ALBYN'S   ANTHOLOGY. 

[l8l6.] 

Air  —  "  T/taz'n'  a  Grigalach.'''' 

The  moon  's  on  the  lake  and  the  mist  "s  on 

the  brae, 
And  the  Clan  has  a  name  that  is  nameless 
by  day ; 
Then  gather,  gather,  gather,  Grigalach  ! 
Gather,  gather,  gather,  etc. 

Our  signal  for  fight,  that   from  monarchs 

we  drew, 
Must  be  heard  but  by  night  in  our  vengeful 
haloo !  • 

Then  haloo,  Grigalach  !  haloo.  Griga- 
'  lach  ! 
Haloo,  haloo,  haloo,  Grigalach,  etc. 


Glen  Orchy's  proud  mountains,  Coalchurn 

and  her  towers, 
Glenstrae  and  Glenlyon  no  longer  are  ours  ; 
We  're     landless,     landless,    landless, 

Grigalach ! 
Landless,  landless,  landless,  etc. 


But  doomed  and  devoted  by   vassal  and 

lord, 
MacGregor  has  still  both  his  heart  and  his 
sword ! 
Then  courage,  courage,  courage,  Grig- 
alach ! 
Courage,  courage,  courage,  etc. 


If  they  rob  us  of  name  and  pursue  us  with 

beagles, 
Give  their  roofs  to  the  flame  and  their  flesh 
to  the  eagles  ! 
Then  vengeance,  vengeance,  vengeance, 

Grigalach  ! 
Vengeance,  vengeance,  vengeance,  etc. 

While  there  's  leaves  in  the  forest  and  foam 

on  the  river, 
MacGregor,   despite    them,   shall   flourish 
forever ! 
Come    then,    Grigalach,    come    then, 

Grigalach ! 
Come  then,  come  then,  come  then,  etc. 

Through  the  depths  of   Loch  Katrine  the 

steed  shall  career, 
O'er  the  peak  of  Ben-Lomond  the  galley 

shall  steer, 
And  the  rocks  of  Craig-Royston  like  icicles 

melt, 
Ere  our  wrongs  be  forgot  or  our  vengeance 

unfelt. 
Then  gather,  gather,  gather,  Grigalach ! 
Gather,  gather,  gather,  etc. 


Uerses 

COMPOSED  FOR  THE  OCCASION,  ADAPTED  TO  HAYDN'S 
AIR,  "  GOD  SAVE  THE  EMPEROR  FRANCIS,"  AND  SUNG 
BY  A  SELECT  BAND  AFTER  THE  DINNER  GIVEN  BY 
THE  LORD  PROVOST  OF  EDINBURGH  TO  THE  GRAND- 
DUKE  NICHOLAS  OF  RUSSIA,  AND  HIS  SUITE,  19TH 
DECEMBER,    1816. 

God  protect  brave  Alexander, 
Heaven  defend  the  noble  Czar, 
Mighty  Russia's  high  Commander, 
First  in  Europe's  banded  war: 
For  the  realms  he  did  deliver 
From  the  tyrant  overthrown, 
Thou,  of  every  good  the  Giver, 
Grant  him  long  to  bless  his  own  ! 
Bless  him,  mid  his  land's  disaster 
For  her  rights  who  battled  brave ; 
Of  the  land  of  foemen  master, 
Bless  him  who  their  wrongs  forgave. 

O'er  his  just  resentment  victor, 
Victor  over  Europe's  foes, 
Late  and  long  supreme  director, 
Grant  in  peace  his  reign  may  close. 
Hail !  then,  hail !  illustrious  stranger  ! 
Welcome  to  our  mountain  strand; 
Mutual  interests,  hopes,  and  danger, 
Link  us  with  thy  native  land. 
Freemen's  force  or  false  beguiling 
Shall  that  union  ne'er  divide, 
Hand  in  hand  while  peace  is  smiling, 
And  in  battle  side  by  side. 


33 


5H 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL    WORKS. 


Cfje  Search;   after   happiness; 

OR,   THE   QUEST   OF   SULTAUN    SOLIMAUN. 
[1817O 

O,  for  a  glance  of  that  gay  Muse's  eye 
That  lightened  on  Bandello's   laughing 

tale, 
And  twinkled  with  a  lustre  shrewd  and 

sly 
When   Giam   Battista   bade   her  vision 

hail!  — 
Yet  fear  not,  ladies,  the  naive  detail 
Given  by  the  natives  of  that  land  cano- 
rous; 
Italian  license  loves  to  leap  the  pale, 
We  Britons  have  the  fear  of  shame  be- 
fore us, 
And,  if  not  wise  in  mirth,  at  least  must  be 
decorous. 

In  the  far  eastern  clime,  no  great  while 

since, 
Lived  Sultaun  Solimaun,  a  mighty  prince, 
Whose  eyes,  as  oft  as  they  performed  their 

round, 
Beheld  all  others  fixed  upon  the  ground  ; 
Whose  ears  received  the  same  unvaried 

phrase, 
1  Sultaun  !  thy  vassal  hears  and  he  obeys  ! ' 
All  have  their  tastes  —  this  may  the  fancy 

strike 
Of  such  grave  folks  as  pomp  and  grandeur 

like; 
For  me,  I  love  the  honest  heart  and  warm 
Of  monarch  who  can  amble  round  his  farm, 
Or,  when  the  toil  of  state  no  more  annoys, 
In  chimney  corner  seek  domestic  joys  — 
I  love  a  prince  will  bid  the  bottle  pass, 
Exchanging  with  his  subjects  glance  and 

glass ; 
In  fitting  time  can,  gayest  of  the  gay, 
Keep  up  the  jest  and  mingle  in  the  lay  — 
Such  monarchs  best  our  free-born  humors 

suit, 
But  despots  must  be  stately,  stern,  and  mute. 

This  Solimaun  Serendib  had  in  sway  — 
And  where's  Serendib?  may  some  critic 

say.  — 
( -ood  lack,  mine  honest  friend,  consult  the 

chart, 
Scare  not  my  Pegasus  before  I  start! 
If  RetmeU  has  it  not,  you'll  find  mayhap 
The  isle  laid  down  in  Captain  Sindbad's 

map  — 
Famed  mariner,  whose  merciless  narrations 
y   friend   and    kinsman   out  of 

patience, 


Till,  fain  to  find  a  guest  who  thought  them 

shorter, 
He  deigned  to  tell  them  over  to  a  porter  — 
The  last  edition  see,  by  Long,  and  Co., 
Rees,  Hurst,  and  Orme,  our  fathers  in  the 

Row. 


Serendib  found,  deem  not  my  tale  a  fic- 
tion— 
This  Sultaun,  whether  lacking  contradic- 
tion— 
A  sort  of  stimulant  which  hath  its  uses 
To  raise  the  spirits  and  reform  the  juices, 
Sovereign  specific  for  all  sorts  of  cures 
In  my  wife's  practice  and  perhaps  in  yours  — 
The  Sultaun  lacking  this  same  wholesome 

bitter, 
Or  cordial  smooth  for  prince's  palate  fitter  — 
Or  if  some  Mollah  had  hag-rid  his  dreams 
With    Degial,    Ginnistan,   and    such   wild 

themes 
Belonging  to  the  Mollah 's  subtle  craft, 
I  wot  not  —  but  the  Sultaun  never  laughed, 
Scarce  ate  or  drank,  and  took  a  melancholy 
That  scorned  all  remedy  profane  or  holy  ; 
In  his  long  list  of  melancholies,  mad 
Or  mazed  or  dumb,  hath  Burton  none  so 
bad. 

Physicians  soon  arrived,  sage,  ware,  and 

tried, 
As  e'er  scrawled  jargon  in  a  darkened 

room; 
With  heedful  glance  the  Sultaun's  tongue 

they  eyed, 
Peeped  in  his  bath  and  God  knows  where 

beside, 
And  then  in  solemn  accent  spoke  their 

doom, 
•  His  majesty  is  very  far  from  well.' 
Then    each    to    work    with    his     specific 

fell:  y 

The  Hakim  Ibrahim  instanter  brought 
His  unguent  Mahazzim  al  Zerdukkaut, 
While  Roompot,  a  practitioner  more  wily, 
Relied  on  his  Munaskif  al  fillfily. 
More  and  yet  more  in  deep  array  appear, 
And  some  the  front  assail  and  some  the 

rear; 
Their  remedies  to  reinforce  and  vary 
Came  surgeon  eke,  and  eke  apothecary ; 
Till  the  tired  monarch,  though  of  words 

grown  chary, 
Yet  dropt,  to  recompense   their  fruitless 

labor, 
Some  hint  about  a  bowstring  or  a  sabre. 
There  lacked,  I   promise   you,  no  longer 

speeches 
To  rid  the  palace  of  those  learned  leeches. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


515 


Then   was    the    council    called  —  by    their 

advice  — 
They  deemed  the  matter  ticklish  all  and  nice, 
And  sought  to  shift  it  off  from  their  own 

shoulders  — 
Tartars  and  couriers  in  all  speed  were  sent, 
To  call,  a  sort  of  Eastern  Parliament 

Of  feudatory  chieftains  and  freeholders  — 
Such  have  the  Persians  at  this  very  day, 
My  gallant   Malcolm   calls   them  couronl- 

tai;  — 
I  'm  not  prepared  to  show  in  this  slight 

song 

That  to  Serendib  the  same  forms  belong  — 
E'en  let  the  learned  go  search,  and  tell  me 

if  I  'm  wrong. 


The  Omrahs,  each  with  hand  on  scimitar, 

Gave,  like  Sempronius,  still  their  voice  for 
war  — 

'  The  sabre  of  the  Sultaun  in  its  sheath 

Too  long  has  slept  nor  owned  the  work  of 
death  ; 

Let  the  Tambourgi  bid  his  signal  rattle, 

Bang  the  loud  gong  and  raise  the  shout  of 
battle  ! 

This  dreary  cloud  that  dims  our  sovereign's 
day 

Shall  from  his  kindled  bosom  flit  away, 

When  the  bold  Lootie  wheels  his  courser 
round 

And  the  armed  elephant  shall'  shake  the 
ground. 

Each  noble  pants  to  own  the  glorious  sum- 
mons— 

And  for  the  charges  —  Lo !   your  faithful 
Commons ! ' 

The  Riots  who  attended  in  their  places  — 
Serendib  language  calls  a  farmer  Riot  — 

Looked  ruefully  in  one  another's  faces, 
From  thisoratiori  auguring  much  disquiet, 

Double  assessment,  forage,  and  free  quar- 
ters ; 

And  fearing  these  as  Chinamen  the  Tartars, 

Or    as    the    whiskered    vermin    fear    the 
mousers, 

Each  fumbled  in  the  pocket  of  his  trousers. 

And  next  came  forth  the  reverend  Convo- 
cation, 
Bald  heads,  white   beards,  and  many  a 
turban  green, 
Imaum  and  Mollah  there  of  every  station, 
Santon,  Fakir,  and  Calendar  were  seen. 
Their  votes  were  various — some  advised 
a  mosque 
With  fitting  revenues  should  be  erected, 
With  seemly  gardens  and  with  gay  kiosque, 
To  recreate  a  band  of  priests  selected ; 


Others  opined  that  through  the  realms  a 

dole 
Be  made   to   holy  men,  whose  prayers 

might  profit 
The  Sultaun's  weal  in  body  and  in  soul. 
But  their  long-headed  chief,  the  Sheik 

Ul-Sofit, 
More   closely  touched  the  point;  —  'Thy 

studious  mood,' 
Quoth  he,  '  O  Prince  !  hath  thickened  all 

thy  blood, 
And  dulled  thy  brain  with  labor  beyond 

measure ; 
Wherefore    relax  a   space  and   take    thy 

pleasure, 
And     toy   with    beauty   or    tell    o'er    thy 

treasure ; 
From  all  the  cares  of  state,  my  liege,  en- 
large thee, 
And    leave    the    burden    to    thy  faithful 

clergy.' 

These  counsels  sage  availed  not  a  whit, 
And    so    the    patient  —  as    is    not  un- 
common 
Where  grave  physicians  lose  their  time  and 
wit  — 
Resolved    to    take    advice    of    an    old 
woman ; 
His   mother  she,  a  dame  who   once  was 

beauteous, 
And  still  was  called  so  by  each  subject 

duteous. 
Now,  whether  Fatima  was  witch  in  earnest, 

Or  only  made  believe,  I  cannot  say  — 

But   she   professed    to    cure    disease   the 

sternest, 

By  dint  of  magic  amulet  or  lay ; 

And,  when  all  other  skill  in  vain  was  shown, 

She  deemed  it  fitting  time  to  use  her  own. 

1  Sympathia  magica  hath  wonders  done  '  — 
Thus  did  old  Fatima  bespeak  her  son  — 
'  It  works  upon  the  fibres  and  the  pores, 
And  thus  insensibly  our  health  restores, 
And  it  must  help  us  here.  —  Thou  must 

endure 
The  ill,  my  son,  or  travel  for  the  cure. 
Search  land  and  sea,  and  get  where'er  you 

can 
The  inmost  vesture  of  a  happy  man, 
I  mean  his  shirt,  my  son;  which,  taken 

warm 
And  fresh  from  off  his  back,  shall  chase 

your  harm, 
Bid  every  current  of  your  veins  rejoice, 
And  your  dull  heart  leap  light  as  shepherd- 
boy's.' 
Such   was   the   counsel    from  his   mother 
came ;  — 


5i6 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL   WORKS. 


I  know  not  if  she  had  some  under-game, 

As  doctors  have,  who  bid  their  patients 
roam 

And  live  abroad  when  sure  to  die  at  home ; 

Or  if  she  thought  that,  somehow  or  another, 

Queen-Regent  sounded  better  than  Queen- 
Mother  ; 

But,  says  the  Chronicle  —  who  will  go  look 
it  — 

That  such  was  her  advice  —  the  Sultaun 
took  it. 

All  are  on  board  ^he  Sultaun  and  his 
train, 

In  gilded  galley  prompt  to  plough  the  main. 
The  old  Rais  was  the  first  who  ques- 
tioned, 'Whither?' 

They  paused  —  'Arabia,'  thought  the  pen- 
sive prince, 

'  Was  called  The  Happy  many  ages  since  — 
For  Mokha,  Rais.'  —  And  they  came 
safely  thither. 

But  not  in  Araby  with  all  her  balm, 

Not  where  Judea  weeps  beneath  her  palm, 

Not  in  rich  Egypt,  not  in  Nubian  waste, 

Could  there  the  step  of  happiness  be  traced. 

One  Copt  alone  professed  to  have  seen  her 
smile, 

When  Bruce  his  goblet  filled  at  infant 
Nile: 

She  blessed  the  dauntless  traveller  as  he 
quaffed, 

But  vanished  from  him  with  the  ended 
draught. 

'  Enough  of  turbans,'  said  the  weary  King, 

'  These  dolimans  of  ours  are  not  the  thing; 

Try  we  the  Giaours,  these  men  of  coat  and 
cap,  I 

Incline  to  think  some  of  them  must  be 
happy ; 

At  least,  they  have  as  fair  a  cause  as  any 
can, 

They  drink  good  wine  and  keep  no 
Ramazan. 

Then  northward,  ho!' — The  vessel  cuts 
the  sea, 

And  fair  Italia  lies  upon  her  lee. — 

But  fair  Italia,  she  who  once  unfurled 

Ilrt  i  a -.de-banners  o'er  a  conquered  world, 

Long  from  her  throne  of  domination  tum- 
bled. 

Lay  by  her  quondam  vassals  sorely  hum- 
bled : 

The  Pope  himself  looked  pensive,  pale, 
and    l«.iii. 

And  was  not  half  the  man  he  once  had 

4  While  these  the  priest  and  those  the 
noble  fleeces, 


Our  poor  old  boot,'  they  said,  '  is  torn  to 

pieces. 
Its  tops  the  vengeful  claws  of  Austria  feel. 
And  the  Great  Devil  is  rending  toe  and 

heel. 
If  happiness  you  seek,  to  tell  you  truly, 
We  think  she   dwells  with  one   Giovanni 

Bulli ; 
A  tramontane,  a  heretic  —  the  buck, 
Poffaredio  !  still  has  all  the  luck ; 
By  land  or  ocean  never  strikes  his  flag  — 
And  then  —  a  perfect  walking  money-bag.' 
Off  set  our  prince   to   seek   John   Bull's 

abode, 
But  first  took    France — it  lay  upon   the 

road. 

Monsieur  Baboon  after  much  late  commo- 
tion 
Was  agitated  like  a  settling  ocean, 
Quite  out  of  sorts  and  could  not  tell  what 

ailed  him. 
Only  the  glory  of  his  house  had  failed  him ; 
Besides,  some  tumors  on  his  noddle  biding 
Gave  indication  of  a  recent  hiding. 
Our  prince,  though  Sultauns  of  such  things 

are  heedless, 
Thought  it  a  thing  indelicate  and  needless 
To  ask  if  at  that  moment  he  was  happy. 
And  Monsieur,  seeing  that  he  was  co7nme 

ilfaut,  a 
Loud   voice    mustered    up,    for    '  Vive   le 

Roil' 
Then  whispered,  '  Ave  you  any  news  of 

Nappy  ? ' 
The   Sultaun  answered  him  with  a  cross 

question.  — 
'  Pray,  can  you  tell  me  aught  of  one  John 

Bull, 
That    dwells    somewhere    beyond   your 

herring-pool  ? ' 
The  query  seemed  of  difficult  digestion, 
The  party  shrugged  and  grinned  and  took 

his  snuff, 
And  found  his  whole  good-breeding  scarce 

enough. 

Twitching  his  visage  into  as  many  puckers 
As  damsels  wont  to  put  into  their  tuckers  — 
Ere  liberal  Fashion  damned  both  lace  and 

lawn, 
And  bade  the  veil  of  modesty  be  drawn  — 
Replied  the  Frenchman  after  a  brief  pause, 
'  Jean  Bool !  —  I  vas  not  know  him  —  Yes, 

I  vas  — 
I  vas  remember  dat,  von  year  or  two, 
I  saw  him  at  von  place  called  Vaterloo  — 
Ma  foi !  il  s'est  tres  joliment  battu, 
Dat  is  for  Englishman,  —  m'entendez-vous  ? 
But  den  he  had  wit  him  one  damn  son-gun, 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


517 


Rogue  I  no  like  —  dey  call  him  Vellington.' 
Monsieur's   politeness  could  not  hide  his 

fret, 
So  Solimaun  took  leave  and  crossed  the 

strait. 


John  Bull  was  in  his  very  worst  of  moods, 
Raving  of  sterile  farms  and  unsold  goods ; 
His  sugar-loaves  and  bales  about  he  threw, 
And  on  his  counter  beat  the  devil's  tattoo. 
His   wars    were    ended    and    the    victory 

won, 
But  then  't  was  reckoning-day  with  honest 

John; 
And  authors  vouch,  't  was  still  this  worthy's 

way, 
'  Never  to  grumble  till  he  came  to  pay  ; 
And  then  he  always  thinks,  his  temper  's 

such, 
The  work  too  little  and  the  pay  too  much.' 
Yet,   grumbler  as    he   is,   so   kind  and 

hearty 
That  when  his  mortal  foe  was  on  the  floor, 
And  past  the  power   to    harm   his    quiet 

more, 
Poor  John  had  wellnigh  wept  for  Bona- 
parte ! 
Such    was    the    wight    whom     Solimaun 

salamed,  — 
1  And  who  are  you,'  John  answered,  •  and 

be  d d?' 


•  A   stranger,    come    to   see    the   happiest 

man  — 
So,  signior,  all  avouch  —  in  Frangistan.' 
'  Happy  ?  my  tenants  breaking  on  my  hand  ; 
Unstocked   my  pastures  and  untilled  my 

land; 
Sugar  and  rum  a  drug,  and  mice  and  moths 
The   sole   consumers   of  my  good  broad- 
cloths — 
Happy?  —  Why,  cursed  war  and    racking 

tax 
Have  left  us  scarcely  raiment  to  our  backs.' 
'  In  that  case,  signior,  I  may  take  my  leave ; 
I  came  to  ask  a  favor  —  but  I  grieve  '  — 
'  Favor?'  said  John,  and  eyed  the  Sultaun 
hard, 

•  It 's   my  belief  you  came  to  break   the 

yard !  — 
But,  stay,  you  look  like  some  poor  foreign 

sinner  — 
Take    that    to  buy   yourself  a    shirt   and 

dinner.' 
With   that  he   chucked  a  guinea    at   his 

head; 
But  with  due  dignity  the  Sultaun  said, 

•  Permit  me,  sir,  your  bounty  to  decline ; 
A  shirt  indeed  I  seek,  but  none  of  thine. 


Signior,   I    kiss   your  hands,  so  fare   you 

well.' 
'  Kiss  and  be  d- 
•  to  hell ! ' 


,'  quoth  John,  '  and  go 


Next  door  to  John  there  dwelt  his  sister 

Peg, 
Once  a  wild  lass  as  ever  shook  a  leg 
When  the  blithe  bagpipe  blew — but,  so- 
berer now, 
She  doucely  span  her  flax  and  milked  her 

cow. 
And  whereas  erst  she  was  a  needy  slattern, 
Nor  now  of  wealth  or  cleanliness  a  pattern, 
Yet  once  a  month  her  house  was  partly 

swept, 
And  once  a  week  a  plenteous  board  she 

kept. 
And  whereas,  eke,  the  vixen  used  her  claws 
And  teeth  of  yore  on  slender  provocation, 
She  now  was  grown  amenable  to  laws, 

A  quiet  soul  as  any  in  the  nation  ; 
The  sole  remembrance  of  her  warlike  joys 
Was  in  old  songs  she  sang  to  please  her 

boys. 
John  Bull,  whom    in  their  years  of  early 

strife 
She  wont  to  lead  a  cat-and-doggish  life, 
Now   found    the   woman,   as    he    said,   a 

neighbor, 
Who  looked  to  the  main  chance,  declined 

no  labor. 
Loved  a  long  grace  and  spoke  a  northern 

jargon, 
And  was 

gain. 


close  in  making  of  a  bar- 


The    Sultaun    entered,   and   he   made   his 

leg, 
And  with  decorum  curtsied  sister  Peg  — 
She  loved  a  book,  and  knew  a  thing  or  two, 
And  guessed  at  once  with  whom  she  had 

to  do. 
She  bade  him  '  Sit  into  the  fire,'  and  took 
Her  dram,  her  cake,  her  kebbuck  from  the 

nook ; 
Asked  him  'about  the  news  frqm  Eastern 

parts ; 
And  of  her  absent  bairns,  puir  Highland 

hearts  ! 
If  peace  brought  down  the  price  of  tea  and 

pepper, 
And    if    the    nitmugs   were    grown    ony 

cheaper ; — 
Were  there  nae  sfieerings  of  our  Mungo 

Park— 
Ye  '11  be  the  gentleman  that  wants  the  sark  ? 
If  ye  wad  buy  a  web  o'  auld  wife's  spinning, 
I  '11  warrant  ye  it 's  a  weel-wearins:  linen.' 


-wearing 


5i8 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL    WORKS. 


Then  up  got  Peg  and  round  the  house  'gan 

scuttle 
.    In  search  of  goods  her  customer  to  nail, 
Until   the    Sultaun   strained    his   princely 

throttle, 
And  holloed,  'Ma'am,  that  is  not  what 

I  ail. 
Pray,  are  you  happy,  ma'am,  in  this  snug 

glen?' 

•  Happy  ? '  said  Peg ;  '  What  for  d'  ye  want 

to  ken  ? 
Besides,  just  think  upon  this  by-gane  year, 
Grain  wadna    pay   the    yoking    of    the 
pleugh.' 
« What  say  you  to  the  present  ? '  — '  Meal  s 
sae  dear, 
To  make   their  brose  my  bairns    have 
scarce  aneugh.' 
'  The  devil  take  the  shirt,'  said  Solimaun, 

*  1  think  my  quest  will  end  as  it  began.  — 
Farewell,   ma'am;    nay,   no    ceremony,    I 

beg'  — 
4  Ye  '11  no  be  for  the  linen  then  ? '  said  Peg. 

Now,  for  the  land  of  verdant  Erin 

The  Sultaun's  royal  bark  is  steering, 

The    Emerald   Isle   where    honest   Paddy 

dwells, 
The  cousin  of  John  Bull,  as  story  tells. 
For  a  long  space  had  Johh,  with  words  of 

thunder, 
Hard  looks,  and  harder  knocks,  kept  Paddy 

under, 
Till  the  poor  lad,  like  boy  that 's  flogged 

unduly, 
Had  gotten  somewhat  restive  and  unruly. 
Hard  was  his  lot  and  lodging,  you  '11  allow, 
A  wigwam  that  would  hardly  serve  a  sow; 
His  landlord,  and  of  middle-men  two  brace, 
Had  screwed  his  rent  up  to  the  starving- 
place  ; 
1 1  is  garment  was  a  top-coat  and  an  old  one, 
His  meal  was  a  potato  and  a  cold  one  ; 
But  still  for  fun  or  frolic  and  all  that, 
1 1)  the  round  world  was  not  the  match  of 
Pat 


The  Sultaun  saw  him  on  a  holiday, 
Which  is  with  Paddy  still  a  jolly  day : 
When  mass  is  ended,  and  his  load  of  sins 
and   Mother  Church  hath  from 
her  binns 

th  a  bonus  of  imputed  merit, 
Then   ifl    Pat'i  time-  for  fancy,  whim,  and 
spirit! 

e,  to  caper  fair  and  free, 
And  &  ght  as  Leaf  upon  the  tree. 

Mahomet,'  said  Sultaun  Solimaun, 
it  ragged  fellow  is  our  very  man  ! 


Rush  in  and  seize  him  —  do  not  do  him  hurt, 
But,  will  he  nill  he,  let  me  have  his  shirt: 

Shilela  their  plan  was  wellnigh  after  balk- 
ing— 

Much  less  provocation  will  set  it  a-walking — 

But  the  odds  that  foiled  Hercules  foiled 
Paddy  Whack ; 

They  seized,  and  they  floored,  and  they 
stripped  him  —  Alack  ! 

Up-bubboo  !  Paddy  had  not  —  a  shirt  to  his 
back! 

And  the  king,  disappointed,  with  sorrow 
and  shame 

Went  back  to  Serendib  as  sad  as  he  came- 


3Lmeg 

WRITTEN   FOR   MISS    SMITH. 
[1817.] 

When  the  lone  pilgrim  views  afar 
The  shrine  that  is  his  guiding  star, 
With  awe  his  footsteps  print  the  road 
Which  the  loved  saint  of  yore  has  trod. 
As  near  he  draws  and  yet  more  near, 
His  dim  eye  sparkles  with  a  tear ; 
The  Gothic  fane's  unwonted  show, 
The  choral  hymn,  the  tapers'  glow, 
Oppress  his  soul ;  while  they  delight 
And  chasten  rapture  with  affright. 
No  longer  dare  he  think  his  toil 
Can  merit  aught  his  patron's  smile  ; 
Too  light  appears  the  distant  way, 
The  chilly  eve,  the  sultry  day  — 
All  these  endured  no  favor  claim, 
But  murmuring  forth  the  sainted  name, 
He  lays  his  little  offering  down, 
And  only  deprecates  a  frown. 

We  too  who  ply  the  Thespian  art 
Oft  feel  such  bodings  of  the  heart, 
And  when  our  utmost  powers  are  strained 
Dare  hardly  hope  your  favor  gained. 
She  who  from  sister-climes  has  sought 
The  ancient  land  where  Wallace  fought  — 
Land  long  renowned  for  arms  and  arts, 
And  conquering  eyes  and  dauntless  hearts — 
She,  as  the  flutterings  here  avow, 
Feels  all  the  pilgrim's  terrors  now ; 
Yet  sure  on  Caledonian  plain 
The  stranger  never  sued  in  vain. 
'T  is  yours  the  hospitable  task 
To  give  the  applause  she  dare  not  ask ; 
And  they  who  bid  the  pilgrim  speed, 
The  pilgrim's  blessing  be  their  meed. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


519 


fflx.  Hemble's  JFatefoell  gtooress. 

ON  TAKING  LEAVE  OF  THE  EDINBURGH   STAGE. 
[1817O 

As  the  worn  war-horse,  at  the  trumpet's 

sound, 
Erects  his  mane,  and  neighs,  and  paws  the 

ground  — 
Disdains  the  ease  his  generous  lord  assigns, 
And  longs  to  rush  on  the  embattled  lines, 
So  I,  your  plaudits  ringing  on  mine  ear, 
Can  scarce  sustain  to  think  our  parting  near ; 
To  think  my  scenic  hour  forever  past, 
And  that  those  valued  plaudits  are  my  last. 
Why    should    we    part,    while    still    some 

powers  remain, 
That  in  your  service  strive  not  yet  in  vain  ? 
Cannot  high    zeal   the    strength    of   youth 

supply, 
And  sense  of  duty  fire  the  fading  eye ; 
And  all  the  wrongs  of  age  remain  subdued 
Beneath  the  burning  glow  of  gratitude  ? 
Ah,  no !  the  taper,  wearing  to  its  close, 
Oft  for  a  space  in  fitful  lustre  glows  ; 
But  all  too  soon  the  transient  gleam  is  past, 
It  cannot  be  renewed,  and  will  not  last; 
Even  duty,  zeal,  and  gratitude  can  wage 
But  short-lived  conflict  with  the  frosts  of 

age. 
Yes  !    It  were  poor,  remembering  what  I 

was, 
To  live  a  pensioner  on  your  applause, 
To  drain  the  dregs  of  your  endurance  dry, 
And  take,  as  alms,  the  praise  I  once  could 

buy; 
Till  every  sneering  youth  around  enquires, 
1  Is  this  the  man  who  once  could  please 

our  sires  ? ' 
And  scorn  assumes  compassion's  doubtful 

mien, 
To  warn  me  off  from  the  encumbered  scene. 
This   must  not  be  ;  —  and  higher   duties 

crave 
Some  space  between  the  theatre  and  the 

grave, 
That,  like  the  Roman  in  the  Capitol, 
I  may  adjust  my  mantle  ere  I  fall : 
My  life's  brief  act  in  public  service  flown, 
The  last,  the  closing  scene,  must  be  my 

own. 

Here,  then,  adieu  !  while  yet  some  well- 
graced  parts 
May  fix  an  ancient  favorite  in  your  hearts, 
Not  quite  to  be  forgotten,  even  when 
You  look  on  better  actors,  younger  men  : 
And  if  your  bosoms  own  this  kindly  debt 
Of  old  remembrance,  how  shall  mine  for- 
get— 


O,  how  forget !  — -  how  oft  I  hither  came 
In  anxious   hope,   how  oft  returned   with 

fame  ! 
How  oft  around  your  circle  this  weak  hand 
Has  waved  immortal  Shakespeare's  magic 

wand, 
Till  the  full  burst  of  inspiration  came, 
And  I  have  felt,  and  you  have  fanned  the 

flame ! 
By    mem'ry    treasured,    while    her    reign 

endures, 
Those    hours    must    live  —  and    all    their 

charms  are  yours. 

O  favored  Land  !  renowned  for  arts  and 

arms, 
For  manly  talent,  and  for  female  charms, 
Could  this  full  bosom  prompt  the  sinking 

line, 
What  fervent  benedictions  now  were  thine  ! 
But  my  last  part  is  played,  my  knell  is 

rung, 
When  e'en  your  praise  falls  faltering  from 

my  tongue ; 
And  all  that  you  can  hear,  or  I  can  tell, 
Is  —  Friends  and  Patrons,  hail,  and  fare 

YOU  WELL. 


GTJje  &un  upon  tfje  OTefroIafo  %i\\. 


Air 


[1817.] 
Ritnhin  aluin  'stu  mo  run." 


The  sun  upon  the  Weirdlaw  Hill 

In  Ettrick's  vale  is  sinking  sweet ; 
The  westland  wind  is  hush  and  still, 

The  lake  lies  sleeping  at  my  feet. 
Yet  not  the  landscape  to  mine  eye 

Bears  those  bright  hues  that  once  it  bore, 
Though  evening  with  her  richest  dye 

Flames  o'er  the  hills  of  Ettrick's  shore. 

With  listless  look  along  the  plain 

I  see  Tweed's  silver  current  glide, 
And  coldly  mark  the  holy  fane 

Of  Melrose  rise  in  ruined  pride. 
The  quiet  lake,  the  balmy  air, 

The  hill,  the  stream,  the  tower,  the  tree  — 
Are  they  still  such  as  once  they  were, 

Or  is  the  dreary  change  in  me  ? 

Alas  !  the  warped  and  broken  board, 

How  can  it  bear  the  painter's  dye  ? 
The  harp  of  strained  and  tuneless  chord. 

How  to  the  minstrel's  skill  reply  ? 
To  aching  eyes  each  landscape  lowers, 

To  feverish  pulse  each  gale  blows  chill ; 
And  Araby's  or  Eden's  bowers 

Were  barren  as  this  moorland  hill. 


520 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL   WORKS. 


Ctje  ilHonfcs  of  Bangor'*  JKattfj. 

WRITTEN     FOR     MR.    GEORGE    THOMSON'S    WELSH 
MELODIES. 

[I8l7.] 
Air  —  "  Ymdaith  Mionge." 

When  the  heathen  trumpet's  clang 
Round  beleaguered  Chester  rang, 
Veiled  nun  and  friar  gray 
Marched  from  Bangor's  fair  Abbaye  ; 
High  their  holy  anthem  sounds, 
Cestria's  vale  the  hymn  rebounds, 
Floating  down  the  sylvan  Dee, 

O  miserere,  Domine  ! 

On  the  long  procession  goes, 
Glory  round  their  crosses  glows, 
And  the  Virgin-mother  mild 
In  their  peaceful  banner  smiled; 
Who  could  think  such  saintly  band 
Doomed  to  feel  unhallowed  hand  ? 
Such  was  the  Divine  decree, 

O  miserere,  Domine  ! 

Bands  that  masses  only  sung, 
Hands  that  censers  only  swung, 
Met  the  northern  bow  and  bill, 
Heard  the  war-cry  wild  and  shrill : 
Woe  to  Brockmael's  feeble  hand, 
Woe  to  Olfrid's  bloody  brand, 
Woe  to  Saxon  cruelty, 

O  miserere,  Domine  / 

Weltering  amid  warriors  slain, 
Spurned  by  steeds  with  bloody  mane, 
Slaughtered  down  by  heathen  blade, 
Bangor's  peaceful  monks  are  laid  : 
Word  of  parting  rest  unspoke, 
Mass  unsung  and  bread  unbroke  ; 
For  their  souls  for  charity, 

Sing,  O  miserere,  Domine  ! 

Bangor  !  o'er  the  murder  wail ! 
Long  thy  ruins  told  the  tale, 
Shattered  towers  and  broken  arch 
Long  recalled  the  woful  march  : 
On  thy  shrine  no  tapers  burn, 
Never  shall  thy  priests  return  ; 
The  pilgrim  sighs  and  sings  for  thee, 
O  miserere,  Domine  ! 


(Epilogue  to  tfje  appeal. 

Bl    MRS.     IIKNKY    MI. DONS,   FEB.    l6,    l8l8. 

A  j  vi  <>i  \<>ic       or  else  old  >Esop  lied  — 
Was   changed    into   a  fair  and  blooming 

bride, 
hut  spied  a  mouse  upon  her  marriage-day, 


Forgot  her  spouse   and   seized  upon   her 

prey ; 
Even  thus  my  bridegroom  lawyer,  as  you 

saw, 
Threw  off  poor  me  and  pounced  upon  papa. 
His  neck  from  Hymen's  mystic  knot  made 

loose, 
He  twisted    round    my    sire's  the    literal 

noose. 
Such  are  the  fruits  of  our  dramatic  labor 
Since  the  New  Jail  became  our  next-door 

neighbor. 

Yes,   times    are   changed ;    for   in   your 

father's  age 
The  lawyers  were  the  patrons  of  the  stage  : 
However  high  advanced  by  future  fate, 
There  stands  the  bench  [points  to  the  Pit] 

that  first  received  their  weight. 
The  future  legal  sage  't  was  ours  to  see 
Doom  though  unwigged  and  plead  without 

a  fee. 

But  now,  astounding  each  poor  mimic  elf, 

Instead  of  lawyers  comes  the  law  herself  ; 

Tremendous  neighbor,  on  our  right  she 
dwells, 

Builds  high  her  towers  and  excavates  her 
cells ; 

While  on  the  left  she  agitates  the  town 

With  the  tempestuous  question,  Up  or 
down? 

'Twixt  Scyllaand  Charybdis  thus  stand  we, 

Law's  final  end  and  law's  uncertainty. 

But,  soft !  who  lives  at  Rome  the  Pope 
must  flatter, 

And  jails  and  lawsuits  are  no  jesting  matter. 

Then — just  farewell !  We  wait  with  seri- 
ous awe 

Till  your  applause  or  censure  gives  the  law. 

Trusting  our  humble  efforts  may  assure  ye. 

We  hold  you  Court  and  Counsel.  Judge 
and  Jury. 


ifHarfmmmon'0  3Lammt. 
[1818.] 

Air  —  "  Cha  till  mi  luille." 

Macleod's  wizard  flag  from  the  gray  castle 
sallies, 

The  rowers  are  seated,  unmoored  are  the 
galleys ; 

Gleam  war-axe  and  broadsword,  clang  tar- 
get and  quiver, 

As  Mackrimmon  sings,  '  Farewell  to  Dun- 
vegan  forever ! 

Farewell  to  each  cliff  on  which  breakers 
are  foaming; 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


52: 


Farewell,  each  dark  glen  in  which  red-deer 

are  roaming ; 
Farewell,  lonely  Skye,  to  lake,  mountain, 

and  river ; 
Macleod  may  return,  but  Mackrimmon  shall 

never ! 

'  Farewell  the  bright  clouds  that  on  Quillan 

are  sleeping ; 
Farewell  the  bright  eyes  in  the  Dun  that 

are  weeping; 
To  each  minstrel  delusion,  farewell !  —  and 

forever  — 
Mackrimmon    departs,   to    return    to    you 

never ! 
The  Banshee's  wild  voice  sings  the  death- 
dirge  before  me, 
The  pall  of  the  dead  for  a  mantle  hangs 

o'er  me ; 
But  my  heart  shall  not  flag  and  my  nerves 

shall  not  shiver, 
Though   devoted    I    go  —  to   return   again 

never ! 

4  Too  oft  shall  the  notes  of  Mackrimmon's 

bewailing 
Be  heard  when  the  Gael  on  their  exile  are 

sailing ; 
Dear  land  !  to  the  shores  whence  unwilling 

we  sever 
Return  —  return  —  return  shall  we  never  ! 
Cha  till,  cha  till,  cha  till  sin  tuille  ! 
Cha  till,  cha  till,  cha  till  sin  tuille, 
Cha  till,  cha  till,  cha  till  sin  tuille, 
Gea  thillis  Macleod,  cha  till  Mackrim- 
mon !' 


©onalti  ©atrti  's  come  again. 

[1818.] 

Air  —  "  Malcolm  Caird  's  come  again." 
CHORUS. 

Donald  Caird  's  come  again  ! 
Donald  Caird  's  come  again  ! 
Tell  the  news  in  brugh  and  glen, 
Donald  Caird 's  come  again  ! 

Donald  Caird  can  lilt  and  sing, 
Blithely  dance  the  Hieland  fling, 
Drink  till  the  gudeman  be  blind, 
Fleech  till  the  gudewife  be  kind ; 
Hoop  a  leglin,  clout  a  pan, 
Or  crack  a  pow  wi'  ony  man ; 
Tell  the  news  in  brugh  and  glen, 
Donald  Caird 's  come  again. 

Donald  Caird  's  come  again  ! 

Donald  Caird  's  come  again  ! 

Tell  the  news  in  brugh  and  glen, 

Donald  Caird  's  come  again. 


Donald  Caird  can  wire  a  maukin, 
Kens  the  wiles  o'  dun-deer  staukin', 
Leisters  kipper,  makes  a  shift 
To  shoot  a  muir-fowl  in  the  drift ; 
Water-bailiffs,  rangers,  keepers, 
He  can  wauk  when  they  are  sleepers ; 
Not  for  bountith  or  reward 
Dare  ye  mell  wi'  Donald  Caird. 

Donald  Caird  's  come  again  ! 

Donald  Caird  's  come  again  ! 

Gar  the  bagpipes  hum  amain, 

Donald  Caird  s  come  again. 

Donald  Caird  can  drink  a  gill 
Fast  as  hostler-wife  can  fill ; 
Ilka  ane  that  sells  gude  liquor 
Kens  how  Donald  bends  a  bicker ; 
When  he's  fou  he  's  stout  and  saucy, 
Keeps  the  cantle  o'  the  cawsey; 
Hieland  chief  and  Lawland  laird 
Maun  gie  room  to  Donald  Caird ! 

Donald  Caird  's  come  again  ! 

Donald  Caird  's  come  again  ! 

Tell  the  news  in  brugh  and  glen, 

Donald  Caird  's  come  again. 

Steek  the  amrie,  lock  the  kist, 
Else  some  gear  may  weel  be  mist ; 
Donald  Caird  finds  orra  things 
Where  Allan  Gregor  fand  the  tings ; 
Dunts  of  kebbuck,  taits  o'  woo, 
Whiles  a  hen  and  whiles  a  sow, 
Webs  or  duds  frae  hedge  or  yard  — 
'Ware  the  wuddie,  Donald  Caird  ! 

Donald  Caird  's  come  again  ! 

Donald  Caird 's  come  again  ! 

Dinna  let  the  Shirra  ken 

Donald  Caird 's  come  again. 

On  Donald  Caird  the  doom  was  stern. 
Craig  to  tether,  legs  to  aim  ; 
But  Donald  Caird  wi'  mickle  study 
Caught  the  gift  to  cheat  the  wuddie  ; 
Rings  of  aim,  and  bolts  of  steel, 
Fell  like  ice  frae  hand  and  heel ! 
Watch  the  sheep  in  fauld  and  glen, 
Donald  Caird 's  come  again ! 

Donald  Caird  's  come  again  ! 

Donald  Caird  's  come  again  ! 

Dinna  let  the  Justice  ken 

Donald  Caird  's  come  again. 


^pttapjj  on  fflx&.  (£rskme. 

[1819.] 

Plain  as  her  native  dignity  of  mind, 
Arise  the  tomb  of  her  we  have  resigned ; 
Unflawed  and  stainless  be  the  marble  scroll, 
Emblem  of  lovely  form  and  candid  soul.  — 


522 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL   WORKS. 


But,  O,  what  symbol  may  avail  to  tell 
The  kindness,  wit,  and  sense  we  loved  so 

well ! 
What  sculpture  show  the  broken  ties  of  life, 
Here  buried  with  the  parent,  friend,  and 

wife ! 
Or  on  the  tablet  stamp  each  title  dear 
By  which  thine  urn,  Euphemia,  claims  the 

tear! 
Yet  taught  by  thy  meek  sufferance  to  as- 
sume , 
Patience  in  anguish,  hope  beyond  the  tomb, 
Resigned,   though   sad,   this  votive  verse 

shall  flow, 
And  brief,  alas  !  as  thy  brief  span  below. 


©n    iEttricfc  Jorest's  JHountams  Uun. 

[1822.] 

On  Ettrick  Forest's  mountains  dun 

'T  is  blithe  to  hear  the  sportsman's  gun, 

And  seek  the  heath-frequenting  brood 

Far  through  the  noonday  solitude ; 

By  many  a  cairn  and  trenched  mound 

Where  chiefs  of  yore  sleep  lone  and  sound, 

And  springs  where  gray-haired  shepherds 

tell 
That  still  the  fairies  love  to  dwell. 

Alon<£  the  silver  streams  of  Tweed 
'T  is  blithe  the  mimic  fly  to  lead, 
When  to  the  hook  the  salmon  springs, 
And  the  line  whistles  through  the  rings ; 
The  boiling  eddy  see  him  try, 
Then  dashing  from  the  current  high, 
Till  watchful  eye  and  cautious  hand 
Have  led  his  wasted  strength  to  land. 

'T  is  blithe  along  the  midnight  tide 
With  stalwart  arm  the  boat  to  guide ; 
On  high  the  dazzling  blaze  to  rear, 
And  heedful  plunge  the  barbed  spear; 
Rock,  wood,  and  scaur,  emerging  bright, 
Fling  on  the  stream  their  ruddy  light, 
And  from  the  bank  our  band  appears 
Like  Genii  armed  with  fiery  spears. 

"I  is  blithe  at  eve  to  tell  the  tale 
How  ire  succeed  and  how  we  fail, 
Whether  at  Alwyn's  lordly  meal, 
<  )r  lowlier  board  of  Ashestiel; 
While  tin  L  cheerly  shine, 

e  and  Hows  the  wine  — 
Days  free  from  though  1  and  nights  from 

care, 
My  blessing  on  the  Korest  fair. 


&f)e  JHattj   of  Ma. 

WRITTEN    FOR   MR.    GEORGE   THOMSON'S    SCOTTISH 
MELODIES. 

[1822.] 

Air  —  "  The  Maid  of  Is/a." 

O  Maid  of  Isla,  from  the  cliff 

That  looks  on  troubled  wave  and  sky. 
Dost  thou  not  see  yon  little  skiff 

Contend  with  ocean  gallantly  ? 
Now  beating  'gainst  the  breeze  and  surge. 

And  steeped  her  leeward  deck  in  foam. 
Why  does  she  war  unequal  urge  ?  — 

O  Isla's  maid,  she  seeks  her  home. 


O  Isla's  maid,  yon  sea-bird  mark, 

Her  white  wing  gleams  through  mist  and 
spray 
Against  the  storm-cloud  lowering  dark, 

As  to  the  rock  she  wheels  away  ;  — 
Where  clouds  are  dark  and  billows  rave, 

Why  to  the  shelter  should  she  come 
Of  cliff,  exposed  to  wind  and  wave  ?  — 

O  maid  of  Isla,  'tis  her  home  ! 


As  breeze  and  tide  to  yonder  skiff, 

Thou  'rt  adverse  to  the  suit  I  bring, 
And  cold  as  is  yon  wintry  cliff 

Where  sea-birds  close  their  wearied  wing. 
Yet  cold  as  rock,  unkind  as  wave, 

Still,  Isla's  maid,  to  thee  I  come : 
For  in  thy  love  or  in  his  grave 

Must  Allan  Vourich  find  his  home. 


tfarefmll  to   tfje  ilEuse. 

[1822.] 

Enchantress,  farewell,  who   so  oft  has 
decoyed  me 
At    the    close   of  the   evening   through 
woodlands  to  roam, 
Where    the    forester   lated   with    wonder 
espied  me 
Explore  the  wild  scenes  he  was  quitting 
for  home. 
Farewell,  and  take  with  thee  thy  numbers 
wild  speaking 
The  language  alternate  of  rapture   and 
woe: 
O  !  none  but  some  lover  whose  heart-strings 
are  breaking 
The  pang  that  I  feel  at  our  parting  can 
know  ! 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


523 


Each  joy  thou  couldst  double,  and  when 
there  came  sorrow 
Or  pale   disappointment  to   darken  my 
way, 
What  voice  was  like  thine,  that  could  sing 
of  to-morrow 
Till  forgot  in  the  strain  was  the  grief  of 
to-day  ! 
But  when  friends  drop  around  us  in  life's 
weary  waning, 
The  grief,  Queen  of  Numbers,  thou  canst 
not  assuage  ; 
Nor  the  gradual  estrangement  of  those  yet 
remaining, 
The  languor  of  pain  and  the  dullness  of 
age. 

T  was  thou  that  once  taught  me  in  accents 
bewailing 
To  sing  how  a  warrior  lay  stretched  on 
the  plain, 
And  a  maiden  hung  o'er  him  with  aid  un- 
availing, 
And  held  to  his  lips  the  cold  goblet  in 
vain; 
As   vain   thy   enchantments,   O   Queen  of 
wild  Numbers, 
To  a  bard  when  the  reign  of  his  fancy 
is  o'er, 
And  the  quick  pulse  of  feeling  in  apathy 
slumbers  — 
Farewell,  then,  Enchantress  ;  —  I  meet 
thee  no  more. 


W§z  Bamtatjme  (£lufo. 
[1823.] 

Assist  me,  ye  friends  of  Old  Books  and 
Old  Wine, 

To  sing  in  the  praises  of  sage  Bannatyne, 

Who  left  such  a  treasure  of  old  Scottish 
lore 

As  enables  each  age  to  print  one  volume 
more. 
One    volume    more,   my  friends,    one 

volume  more, 
We  '11  ransack  old  Banny  for  one  vol- 
ume more. 

And   first,    Allan    Ramsay,   was   eager   to 
glean 

From  Bannatyne's  Hortus  his  bright  Ever- 
green ; 

Two    light    little   volumes  —  intended    for 
four  — 

Still  leave  us  the  task  to  print  one  volume 
more. 

One  volume  more,  etc. 


His  ways  were  not  ours,  for  he  cared  not 

a  pin 
How  much  he  left  out  or  how  much  he  put 

in  ; 
The  truth  of  the  reading  he  thought  was  a 

bore, 
So  this  accurate  age  calls  for  one  volume 

more. 

One  volume  more,  etc. 

Correct  and  sagacious,  then  came  my  Lord 

Hailes, 
And  weighed  every  letter  in  critical  scales, 
But  left  out  some  brief  words  which  the 

prudish  abhor, 
And  castrated  Banny  in  one  volume  more. 
One   volume    more,   my  friends,   one 

volume  more  ; 
We  '11  restore  Banny's  manhood  in  one 

volume  more. 

John  Pinkerton  next,  and  I  'm  truly  con- 
cerned 

I  can't  call  that  worthy  so  candid  as  learned ; 

He  railed  at  the  plaid  and  blasphemed  the 
claymore. 

And  set  Scots  by  the  ears  in  his  One  vol- 
ume more, 
One    volume   more,    my  friends,    one 

volume  more, 
Celt  and  Goth  shall  be  pleased  with  one 
volume  more. 

As  bitter  as  gall  and  as  sharp  as  a  razor, 
And  feeding  on  herbs  as  a  Nebuchadnezzar  ; 
His  diet  too  acid,  his  temper  too  sour, 
Little  Ritson  came  out  with  his  two  volumes 
more. 
But  one  volume,  my  friends,  one  volume 

more, 
We  '11  dine  on  roast-beef  and  print  one 
volume  more. 

The  stout  Gothic  yeditur,  next  on  the  roll, 
With  his  beard  like  a  brush  and  as  black 

as  a  coal ; 
And  honest  Greysteel  that  was  true  to  the 

core, 
Lent  their  hearts  and  their  hands  each  to 

one  volume  more. 

One  volume  more,  etc. 

Since    by   these    single    champions   what 

wonders  were  done, 
What  may  not  be  achieved  by  our  Thirty 

and  One  ? 
Law,  Gospel,  and  Commerce,  we  count  in, 

our  corps, 
And  the  Trade  and  the  Press  join  for  one 

volume  more. 

One  volume  more,  etc. 


524 


SCOTT'S  POETICAL   WORKS. 


Ancient  libels   and   contraband    books,    I 
assure  ye, 

We  '11  print  as  secure  from  Exchequer  or 
Jury; 

Then  hear  your  Committee  and  let  them 
count  o'er 

The  Chiels  they  intend  in  their  three  vol- 
umes more. 

Three  volumes  more,  etc. 

They'll  produce  you  King  Jamie,  the  sa- 
pient and  Sext, 

And  the  Rob  of  Dumblane  and  her  Bishops 
come  next ; 

One    tome   miscellaneous   they  '11   add    to 
your  store, 

Resolving  next  year  to  print  four  volumes 
more. 
Four  volumes  more,  my  friends,  four 

volumes  more ; 
Pay  down  your  subscriptions  for  four 
volumes  more. 


(Epilogue 

TO   THE   DRAMA   FOUNDED   ON    "  SAINT 

ronan's  WELL." 

[1824.] 

[Enter  Meg  Dodds,  encircled  by  a  crowd  of  unruly 
boys,  whom  a  town1  s-officer  is  driving  off.] 

That  's  right,  friend  —  drive  the  gaitlings 

back, 
And  lend  yon  muckle  ane  a  whack ; 
Your  Embro'  bairns  are  grown  a  pack, 

Sae  proud  and  saucy, 
They  scarce  will  let  an  auld  wife  walk 
Upon  your  causey. 

I  've  seen  the  day  they  would  been  scaured 
Wi'  the  Tolbooth  or  wi'  the  Guard, 
Or  maybe  wud  hae  some  regard 

For  Jamie  Laing  — 
The  Water-hole  was  right  weel  wared 

On  sic  a  gang. 

But  whar  's  the  gude  Tolbooth  gane  now  ? 
Whar  's  the  auld  Caught,  wi'  red  and  blue  ? 
Whar 's  Jamie  Laing  ?  and  whar 's  JohnDoo  ? 

And  whar  's  the  Weigh-house  ? 
Deil  hae't  I  see  but  what  is  new, 

Except  the  Playhouse  ! 

Yoursells  are  changed  frae  head  to  heel, 
There  \s  some  that  gar  the  causeway  reel 
With  clashing  hufe  and  rattling  wheel, 
And  horses  canterin', 


Wha's  fathers'  daundered  hame  as  weel 
Wi'  lass  and  lantern. 

Mysell  being  in  the  public  line, 

I  look  for  howfs  I  kenned  lang  syne, 

Whar  gentles  used  to  drink  gude  wine 

And  eat  cheap  dinners  ; 
But  deil  a  soul  gangs  there  to  dine 

Of  saints  or  sinners  ! 

Fortune's  and  Hunter's  gane,  alas  ! 
And  Bayle's  is  lost  in  empty  space ; 
And  now  if  folk  would  splice  a  brace 

Or  crack  a  bottle, 
They  gang  to  a  new-fangled  place 

They  ca'  a  Hottle. 

The  deevil  hottle  them  for  Meg ! 
They  are  sae  greedy  and  sae  gleg, 
That  if  ye  're  served  but  wi'  an  egg  — 

And  that 's  puir  picking  — 
In  comes  a  chiel  and  makes  a  leg, 

And  charges  chicken ! 

'  And  wha  may  ye  be,'  gin  ye  speer, 

'  That  brings  your  auld-warld  clavers  here  ? 

Troth,  if  there  's  onybody  near 

That  kens  the  roads, 
I  '11  haud  ye.  Burgundy  to  beer 


I  came  a  piece  frae  west  o'  Currie  ; 
And,  since  I  see  you  're  in  a  hurry, 
Your  patience  I  '11  nae  langer  worry, 

But  be  sae  crouse 
As  speak  a  word  for  ane  Will  Murray 

That  keeps  this  house. 

Plays  are  auld-fashioned  things  in  truth, 
And  ye  've  seen  wonders  mair  uncouth  ; 
Yet  actors  shouldna  suffer  drouth 

Or  want  of  dramock, 
Although  they  speak  but  wi'  their  mouth, 

Not  with  their  stamock. 

But  ye  take  care  of  a'  folk's  pantry ; 
And  surely  to  hae  stooden  sentry 
Ower  this  big  house  —  that 's  far  frae  rent- 
free — 

For  a  lone  sister, 
Is  claims  as  gude  's  to  be  a  ventri  — 

How'st  ca'd  — loquister. 

Weel,  sirs,  gude'en,  and  have  a  care 
The  bairns  mak  fun  o'  Meg  nae  mair  ; 
For  gin  they  do,  she  tells  you  fair 

And  without  failzie, 
As  sure  as  ever  ye  sit  there, 

She  '11  tell  the  Bailie. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


525 


IBptiojjue. 

[1824.] 

The  sages  —  for  authority,  pray,  look 
Seneca's  morals  or  the  copy-book  — 
The  sages  to  disparage  woman's  power, 
Say  beauty  is  a  fair  but  fading  flower ;  — 
I  cannot  tell  —  I  've  small  philosophy  — 
Yet  if  it  fades  it  does  not  surely  die, 
But,  like  the  violet,  when  decayed  in  bloom, 
Survives  through  many  a  year  in  rich  per- 
fume.  x 
Witness   our    theme    to-night  ;    two  ages 

gone, 
A  third  wanes  fast,  since  Mary  filled  the 

throne. 
Brief  was  her  bloom  with  scarce  one  sunny 

day 
'Twixt  Pinkie's  field  and  fatal  Fotheringay  : 
But  when,  while  Scottish  hearts  and  blood 

you  boast, 
Shall  sympathy  with  Mary's  woes  be  lost  ? 
O'er  Mary's  memory  the  learned  quarrel, 
By  Mary's  grave  the  poet  plants  his  laurel, 
Time's    echo,    old    tradition,    makes   her 

name 
The    constant    burden    of     his     faltering 

theme ; 
In  each  old   hall  his  gray-haired  heralds 

tell  *    y 

Of  Mary's  picture  and  of  Mary's  cell, 
And    show  —  my    fingers    tingle    at    the 

thought  — 
The   loads   of    tapestry   which   that    poor 

queen  wrought. 
In  vain  did  fate  bestow  a  double  dower 
Of  every  ill  that  waits  on  rank  and  power, 
Of  every  ill  on  beauty  that  attends  — 
False    ministers,   false    lovers,   and   false 

friends. 
Spite   of    three   wedlocks    so  completely 

curst, 
They  rose  in  ill  from  bad  to  worse  and 

worst, 
In  spite  of  errors  —  I  dare  not  say  more, 
For  Duncan  Targe  lays  hand  on  his  clay- 
more. 
In  spite  of  all,  however  humors  vary, 
There  is  a  talisman  in  that  word  Mary, 
That  unto  Scottish  bosoms  all  and  some 
Is  found  the  genuine  open  sesamum  ! 
In  history,  ballad,  poetry,  or  novel, 
It  charms  alike  the  castle  and  the  hovel, 
Even  you  —  forgive    me  —  who,   demure 

and  shy, 
Gorge  not  each  bait  nor  stir  at  every  fly, 
Must    rise    to    this,   else   in   her  ancient 

reign 
The   Rose  of    Scotland  has   survived    in 


&{>e  ©eatfj  of  IBtoltrar. 

[1828.] 

Up  rose  the  sun  o'er  moor  and  mead ; 
Up  with  the  sun  rose  Percy  Rede ; 
Brave  Keeldar,  from  his  couples  freed, 

Careered  along  the  lea; 
The  Palfrey  sprung  with  sprightly  bound, 
As  if  to  match  the  gamesome  hound ; 
His  horn  the  gallant  huntsman  wound : 

They  were  a  jovial  three  ! 

Man,  hound,  or  horse,  of  higher  fame, 
To  wake  the  wild  deer  never  came 
Since  Alnwick's  Earl  pursued  the  game 

On  Cheviot's  rueful  day : 
Keeldar  was  matchless  in  his  speed, 
Than  Tarras  ne'er  was  stancher  steed, 
A  peerless  archer,  Percy  Rede ; 

And  right  dear  friends  were  they. 

The  chase  engrossed  their  joys  and  woes. 
Together  at  the  dawn  they  rose, 
Together  shared  the  noon's  repose 

By  fountain  or  by  stream ; 
And  oft  when  evening  skies  were  red 
The  heather  was  their  common  bed, 
Where  each,  as  wildering  fancy  led, 

Still  hunted  in  his  dream. 

Now  is  the  thrilling  moment  near 
Of  sylvan  hope  and  sylvan  fear ; 
Yon  thicket  holds  the  harbored  deer, 

The  signs  the  hunters  know : 
With  eyes  of  flame  and  quivering  ears 
The  brake  sagacious  Keeldar  nears  ; 
The  restless  palfrey  paws  and  rears ; 

The  archer  strings  his  bow. 

The  game  's  afoot !  —  Halloo !  Halloo  ! 
Hunter  and  horse  and  hound  pursue  ;  — 
But  woe  the  shaft  that  erring  flew —       i 

That  e'er  it  left  the  string ! 
And  ill  betide  the  faithless  yew  ! 
The  stag  bounds  scathless  o'er  the  dew, 
And  gallant  Keeldar's  life-blood  true 

Has  drenched  the  gray-goose  wing. 

The  noble  hound  —  he  dies,  he  dies  ; 
Death,  death  .has  glazed  his  fixed  eyes  ; 
Stiff  on  the  bloody  heath  he  lies 

Without  a  groan  or  quiver. 
Now  day  may  break  and  bugle  sound, 
And  whoop  and  hollow  ring  around, 
And  o'er  his  couch  the  stag  may  bound, 

But  Keeldar  sleeps  forever. 

Dilated  nostrils,  staring  eyes, 
Mark  the  poor  palfrey's  mute  surprise ; 
He  knows  not  that  his  comrade  dies, 
Nor  what  is  death  —  but  still 


526 


scorrs  poetical  works. 


His  aspect  hath  expression  drear 
Of  grief  and  wonder  mixed  with  fear, 
Like  startled  children  when  they  hear 
Some  mystic  tale  of  ill. 

But  he  that  bent  the  fatal  bow 
Can  well  the  sum  of  evil  know, 
And  o'er  his  favorite  bending  low 

In  speechless  grief  recline  ; 
Can  think  he  hears  the  senseless  clay 
In  unreproachful  accents  say, 
1  The  hand  that  took  my  life  away, 

Dear  master,  was  it  thine  ? 

'  And  if  it  be,  the  shaft  be  blessed 
Which  sure  some  erring  aim  addressed, 
Since  in  your  service  prized,  caressed, 

I  in  your  service  die  ; 
And  you  may  have  a  fleeter  hound 
To  match  the  dun-deer's  merry  bound, 
But  by  your  couch  will  ne'er  be  found 

So  true  a  guard  as  I.' 

And  to  his  last  stout  Percy  rued 
The  fatal  chance,  for  when  he  stood 
'Gainst  fearful  odds  in  deadly  feud 

And  fell  amid  the  fray, 
E'en  with  his  dying  voice  he  cried, 
4  Had  Keeldar  but  been  at  my  side, 
Your  treacherous  ambush  had  been  spied  — 

I  had  not  died  to-day ! ' 

Remembrance  of  the  erring  bow 

Long  since  had  joined  the  tides  which  flow, 

Conveying  human  bliss  and  woe 

Down  dark  oblivion's  river  ; 
But  Art  can  Time's  stern  doom  arrest 
And  snatch  his  spoil  from  Lethe's  breast, 
And,  in  her  Cooper's  colors  drest, 

The  scene  shall  live  forever. 


5Tf)c  jForag. 

SET  TO    MUSIC   BY  JOHN   WHITEFIELD, 
MUS.   DOC.   CAM. 

[I830.] 

THE  last  of  our  steers  on  the  board  has 

been  spread. 
And  the  last  tiask  of  wine  in  our  goblet  is 

red  j 
Up!  up,  my  brave  kinsmen!    belt  swords 

and  begone, 
There   are   dangers    to  dare   and   there 's 

spoil  to  be  won. 


The  eyes  that  so  lately  mixed  glances  with 

ours 
For  a  space  must  be  dim,  as  they  gaze 

from  the  towers, 
And  strive  to  distinguish  through  tempest 

and  gloom 
The  prance  of  the  steed  and  the  toss  of  the 

plume. 

The   rain   is   descending;  the  wind   rises 

loud; 
And  the  moon  her  red  beacon  has  veiled 

with  a  cloud ; 
'T  is  the  better,  my  mates  !  for  the  warder's 

dull  eye 
Shall  in  confidence  slumber  nor  dream  we 

are  nigh. 

Our   steeds   are    impatient  !      I    hear  my 

blithe  Gray  ! 
There  is  life  in  his  hoof-clang  and  hope  in 

his  neigh ; 
Like  the  flash  of  a  meteor,  the  glance  of 

his  mane 
Shall   marshal    your   march    through    the 

darkness  and  rain. 

The   drawbridge   has   dropped,  the  bugle 

has  blown; 
One  pledge  is  to  quaff  yet  —  then  mount 

and  begone !  — 
To  their  honor  and  peace  that  shall  rest 

with  the  slain  ; 
To   their  health   and  their  glee  that  see 

Teviot  again  ! 


En8crtptt0tt 

FOR  THE    MONUMENT   OF  THE    REV.    GEORGE 
SCOTT. 

[1830.] 

To  youth,  to  age,  alike,  this  tablet  pale 
Tells  the  brief  moral  of  its  tragic  tale. 
Art  thou  a  parent  ?     Reverence  this  bier, 
The  parents'  fondest  hopes  lie  buried  here. 
Art  thou  a  youth,  prepared  on  life  to  start, 
With  opening  talents  and  a  generous  heart ; 
Fair  hopes   and    flattering    prospects    all 

thine  own  ? 
Lo !  here  their  end  —  a  monumental  stone. 
But  let  submission  tame  each   sorrowing 

thought, 
Heaven  crowned  its  champion  ere  the  fight 

was  fought. 


.    APPENDIX 


Sfubemle  Bines. 


JFrom  Uttgtt. 

[1782-1 

IN  awful  ruins  yEtna  thunders  nigh, 
And  sends  in  pitchy  whirlwinds  to  the  sky 
Black  clouds  of  smoke,  which,  still  as  they  as- 
pire, 
From  their  dark  sides  there  bursts  the  glowing 

fire ; 
At  other  times  huge  balls  of  fire  are  tossed, 
That  lick  the  stars,  and  in  the  smoke  are  lost : 
Sometimes  the  mount,  with  vast  convulsions 

torn, 
Emits  huge  rocks,  which  instantly  are  borne 
With  loud  explosions  to  the  starry  skies, 
The  stones  made  liquid  as  the  huge  mass  flies, 
Then  back  again  with  greater  weight  recoils, 
While  iEtna  thundering  from  the  bottom  boils. 


©n  a  ®htm&er-&t0rm. 
[1783-1 
Loud  o'er  my  head  though  awful  thunders  roll, 
And  vivid  lightnings  flash  from  pole  to  pole, 


Yet  'tis   thy  voice,  my  God,  that  bids  them 

Thy  arm  directs  those  lightnings  through  the 

sky. 
Then  let  the  good  thy  mighty  name  revere, 
And  hardened  sinners  thy  just  vengeance  fear. 


©n  the  letting  Sun. 

L1783O 

Those  evening  clouds,  that  setting  ray, 
And  beauteous  tints,  serve  to  display 

Their  great  Creator's  praise ; 
Then  let  the  short-lived  thing  called  man, 
Whose  life 's  comprised  within  a  span, 

To  him  his  homage  raise. 

We  often  praise  the  evening  clouds, 

And  tints  so  gay  and  bold, 
But  seldom  think  upon  our  God, 

Who  tinged  these  clouds  with  gold  ! 


g>ongg  from  tfte  l2obel& 


From   "  Waverley." 

[1814.I 

&aint  Sfotthm's  Chair. 

On  Hallow-Mass  Eve  ere  you  boune  ye  to  rest, 
Ever  beware  that  your  couch  be  blessed  ; 
Sign  it  with  cross  and  sain  it  with  bead, 
Sing  the  Ave  and  say  the  Creed. 

For  on  Hallow-Mass  Eve  the  Night-Hag  will 

ride, 
And  all  her  nine-fold  sweeping  on  by  her  side, 
Whether  the  wind  sing  lowly  or  loud, 
Sailing  through  moonshine  or  swathed  in  the 

cloud. 


The  Lady  she  sate  in  Saint  Swithin's  Chair, 
The  dew  of  the  night  has  damped  her  hair  : 
Her  cheek  was  pale,  but  resolved  and  high 
Was  the  word  of  her  lip  and  the  glance  of  her 
eye. 

She  muttered  the  spell  of  Swithin  bold, 
When  his  naked  foot  traced  the  midnight  wold, 
When  he  stopped  the  Hag  as  she  rode  the  night, 
And  bade  her  descend  and  her  promise  plight. 

He  that  dare  sit  on  Saint  Swithin's  Chair 
When  the  Night-Hag  wings  the  troubled  air, 
Questions  three,  when  he  speaks  the  spell, 
He  may  ask  and  she  must  tell. 


■u 


530 


APPENDIX. 


The  Baron  has  been  with  King  Robert  his  liege, 
These  three  long  years  in  battle  and  siege ; 
News  are  there  none  of  his  weal  or  his  woe, 
And  fain  the  Lady  his  fate  would  know. 

She  shudders   and  stops   as   the    charm    she 

speaks ; — 
Is  it  the  moody  owl  that  shrieks  ? 
Or  is  that  sound,  betwixt  laughter  and  scream, 
The  voice  of  the  Demon  who  haunts  the  stream  ? 

The  moan  of  the  wind  sunk  silent  and  low, 
And  the  roaring  torrent  had  ceased  to  flow ; 
The  calm  was  more  dreadful  than  raging  storm, 
When  the  cold  gray  mist  brought  the  ghastly 
form ! 


JFlara  fittacBwt's  Song. 

There  is  mist  on  the  mountain  and  night  on 

the  vale, 
But  more  dark  is  the  sleep  of  the  sons  of  the 

Gael. 
A  stranger  commanded  —  it  sunk  on  the  land, 
It  has  frozen  each  heart  and  benumbed  every 

hand! 

The  dirk  and  the  target  lie  sordid  with  dust, 
The  bloodless  claymore  is  but  reddened  with 

rust; 
On  the  hill  or  the  glen  if  a  gun  should  appear, 
It  is  only  to  war  with  the  heath-cock  or  deer. 

The  deeds  of  our  sires  if  our  bards  should  re- 
hearse, 

Let  a  blush  or  a  blow  be  the  meed  of  their  verse  ! 

Be  mute  every  string  and  be  hushed  every  tone 

That  shall  bid  us  remember  the  fame  that  is 
flown . 

But  the  dark  hours  of  night  and  of  slumber  are 

past, 
The  morn  on  our  mountains  is  dawning  at  last ; 
Glenaladale's  peaks  are  illumed  with  the  rays, 
And  the  streams  of  Glenfinnan  leap  bright  in 

the  blaze. 

O  high-minded  Moray  !  — the  exiled— the  dear !  — 
In  the  blush  of  the  dawning  the  Standard  uprearl 
Wide,  wide  on  the  winds  of  the  north  let  it  fly, 
Like  the  sun's  latest  flash  when  the  tempest  is 
nigh  ! 

Kmfl  <>f  the  strong,  when  that  dawning  shall 

break 

1  the  harp  of  the  aged  remind  you  to  wake  ? 
That  dawn  never  beamed  on  your  forefathers' 

eye 
l'.vit  it  routed  each  high  chieftain  to  vanquish  or 

die. 

•  rung  from  the  Kings  who  in  Islay  kept  state, 
Proud  chiefs   of  Clan-Ranald,  Glengary,  and 

Sleat! 
Combine  like  three  streams  from  one  mountain 

of  snow, 
And  resistless  in  union  rush  down  on  the  foe. 


True  son  of  Sir  Evan,  undaunted  Lochiel, 
Place  fhy  targe  on  thy  shoulder. and  burnish 

thy  steel ! 
Rough   Keppoch,  give  breath  to   thy  bugle's 

bold  swell, 
Till  far  Coryarrick  resound  to  the  knell ! 

Stern  son  of  Lord  Kenneth,  high  chief  of  Kintail, 
Let  the  stag  in  thy  standard  bound  wild  in  the 

gale ! 
May  the  race  of  Clan-Gillian,  the  fearless  and 

free, 
Remember  Glenlivat,  Harlaw,  and  Dundee  ! 

Let  the  clan  of  gray  Fingon,  whose  offspring 

has  given 
Such    heroes .  to   earth   and   such    martyrs   to 

heaven, 
Unite  with  the  race  of  renowned  Rorri  More, 
To  launch  the  long  galley  and  stretch  to  the  oar ! 

How  Mac-Shimei  will  joy  when  their  chief  shall 

display 
The  yew-crested  bonnet  o'er  tresses  of  gray  ! 
How  the  race  of  wronged  Alpine  and  murdered 

Glencoe 
Shall  shout  for  revenge  when  they  pour  on  the 

foe! 

Ye  sons  of  brown  Dermid,  who  slew  the  wild 

boar, 
Resume  the  pure  faith  of  the  great   Callum- 

More  ! 
Mac-Niel  of  the  Islands,  and  Moy  of  the  Lake, 
For  honor,  for  freedom,  for  vengeance  awake  ! 

Awake  on  your  hills,  on  your  islands  awake, 
Brave  sons  of  the  mountain,  the  frith,  and  the 

lake ! 
'T  is  the  bugle  —  but  not  for  the  chase  is  the  call ; 
'Tis  the  pibroch's  shrill  summons  —  but  not  to 

the  hall. 

'Tis  the  summons  of  heroes  for  conquest   or 

death, 
When  the  banners  are  blazing  on  mountain  and 

heath ; 
They  call  to  the  dirk,  the  claymore,  and  the  targe, 
To  the  march  and  the  muster,  the  line  and  the 

charge. 

Be  the  brand  of  each  chieftain  like  Fin's  in  his  ire  ! 

May  the  blood  through  his  veins  flow  like  cur- 
rents of  fire ! 

Burst  the  base  foreign  yoke  as  your  sires  did  of 
yore !    ' 

Or  die  like  your  sires,  and  endure  it  no  more  1 


From   "  Guy  Mannering." 
[1815.] 

Efotst  $ e,  Wasiw  He. 

Twist  ye,  twine  ye  !  even  so, 
Mingle  shades  of  joy  and  woe, 
Hope  and  fear  and  peace  and  strife, 
In  the  thread  of  human  life. 


SONGS  FROM   THE  NOVELS. 


531 


While  the  mystic  twist  is  spinning, 
And  the  infant's  life  beginning, 
Dimly  seen  through  twilight  bending, 
Lo,  what  varied  shapes  attending  ! 

Passions  wild  and  follies  vain, 
Pleasures  soon  exchanged  for  pain  ; 
Doubt  and  jealousy  and  fear, 
In  the  magic  dance  appear. 

Now  they  wax  and  now  they  dwindle, 
Whirling  with  the  whirling  spindle. 
Twist  ye,  twine  ye  !  even  so, 
Mingle  human  bliss  and  woe. 


From  "  The  Heart  of  Midlothian." 
[1818.] 
^routi   fHatste. 

Proud  Maisie  is  in  the  wood, 

Walking  so  early ; 
Sweet  Robin  sits  on  the  bush, 

Singing  so  rarely. 

'  Tell  me,  thou  bonny  bird, 
When  shall  I  marry  me  ? ' 

'  When  six  braw  gentlemen 
Kirkward  shall  carry  ye.' 

'  Who  makes  the  bridal  bed, 

Birdie,  say  truly  ? ' 
'  The  gray-headed  sexton 

That  delves  the  grave  duly. 

'  The  glow-worm  o'er  grave  and  stone 

Shall  light  thee  steady. 
The  owl  from  the  steeple  sing, 

"  Welcome,  proud  lady." ' 


From  "  The  Bride  of  Lammermoor." 

[1819.] 

3Lucg   ^shtcm's   £ong. 

Look  not  thou  on  beauty's  charming  ; 
Sit  thou  still  when  kings  are  arming  ; 
Taste  not  when  the  wine-cup  glistens  ; 
Speak  not  when  the  people  listens  ; 
Stop  thine  ear  against  the  singer ; 
From  the  red  gold  keep  thy  finger  ; 
Vacant  heart  and  hand  and  eye, 
Easy  live  and  quiet  die. 


From  "  The  Legend  of  Montrose.' 

Ancient  Garlic  fHelotog. 

Birds  of  omen  dark  and  foul, 
Night-crow,  raven,  bat,  and  owl, 
Leave  the  sick  man  to  his  dream  — 
All  night  long  he  heard  you  scream. 


Haste  to  cave  and  ruined  tower, 
Ivy  tod  or  dingled-bower, 
There  to  wink  and  mop,  for,  hark  ! 
In  the  mid  air  sings  the  lark. 

Hie  to  moorish  gills  and  rocks, 
Prowling  wolf  and  wily  fox, — 
Hie  ye  fast,  nor  turn  your  view, 
Though  the  lamb  bleats  to  the  ewe. 
Couch  your  trains  and  speed  your  flight, 
Safety  parts  with  parting  night ; 
And  on  distant  echo  borne, 
Comes  the  hunter's  early  horn. 

The  moon's  wan  crescent  scarcely  gleams, 
Ghost-like  she  fades  in  morning  beams ; 
Hie  hence,  each  peevish  imp  and  fay 
That  scare  the  pilgrim  on  his  way.  — 
Quench,  kelpy !  quench,  in  bog  and  fen, 
Thy  torch  that  cheats  benighted  men ; 
Thy  dance  is  o'er,  thy  reign  is  done, 
For  Benyieglo  hath  seen  the  sun. 

Wild  thoughts,  that;  sinful,  dark,  and  deep, 
O'erpower  the  passive  mind  in  sleep, 
Pass  from  the  slumberer's  soul  away, 
Like  night-mists  from  the  brow  of  day  : 
Foul  hag,  whose  blasted  visage  grim 
Smothers  the  pulse,  unnerves  the  limb, 
Spur  thy  dark  palfrey  and  begone  ! 
Thou  darest  not  face  the  godlike  sun. 


Wc\t  ©rphan  fflaia. 

November's  hail-cloud  drifts  away, 

November's  sun-beam  wan 
Looks  coldly  on  the  castle  gray, 

When  forth  comes  Lady  Anne. 

The  orphan  by  the  oak  was  set, 
Her  arms,  her  feet,  were  bare  ; 

The  hail-drops  had  not  melted  yet 
Amid  her  raven  hair. 

'  And,  dame,'  she  said,  ■  by  all  the  ties 

That  child  and  mother  know, 
Aid  one  who  never  knew  these  joys,  — 

Relieve  an  orphan's  woe.' 

The  lady  said,  '  An  orphan's  state 

Is  hard  and  sad  to  bear  ; 
Yet  worse  the  widowed  mother's  fate, 

Who  mourns  both  lord  and  heir. 

'  Twelve  times  the  rolling  year  has  sped 
Since,  while  from  vengeance  wild 

Of  fierce  Strathallan's  chief  I  fled, 
Forth's  eddies  whelmed  my  child.' 

'  Twelve  times  the  year  its  course  has  borne, 

The  wandering  maid  replied  ; 
'  Since  fishers  on  Saint  Bridget's  morn 

Drew  nets  on  Campsie  side. 


532 


APPENDIX. 


'  Saint  Bridget  sent  no  scaly  spoil  ; 

An  infant,  well-nigh  dead, 
They  saved  and  reared  in  want  and  toil, 
'  To  beg  from  you  her  bread.' 

That  orphan  maid  the  lady  kissed, 
1  My  husband's  looks  you  bear  ; 

Saint  Bridget  and  her  morn  be  blessed  ! 
You  are  his  widow's  heir.' 

They  've  robed  that  maid,  so  poor  and  pale, 

In  silk  and  sandals  rare  ; 
And  pearls,  for  drops  of  frozen  hail, 

Are  glistening  in  her  hair. 


From  "  Ivanhoe." 
3The  Barrfootrti  JFrtar. 

I  'll  give  thee,  good  fellow,  a  twelvemonth  or 

twain 
To  search  Europe  through  from  Byzantium  to 

Spain  ; 
But  ne'er  shall  you  find,  should  you  search  till 

you  tire, 
So  happy  a  man  as  the  Barefooted  Friar. 

Your  knight  for  his  lady  pricks  forth  in  career, 
And   is   brought   home   at   even-song   pricked 

through  with  a  spear ; 
I  confess  him  in  haste  —  for  his  lady  desires 
No  comfort  on  earth  save  the  Barefooted  Friar's. 

Your  monarch  !  —  Pshaw  !  many  a  prince  has 

been  known 
To  barter  his  robes  for  our  cowl  and  our  gown, 
But  which  of  us  e'er  felt  the  idle  desire 
To  exchange  for  a  crown  the  gray  hood  of  a 

friar  ? 

The  Friar  has  walked  out,  and  where'er  he  has 

gone 
The  land  and  its  fatness  is  marked  for  his  own ; 
He  can  roam  where  he  lists,  he  can  stop  where 

he  tires, 
For  every  man's  house  is  the  Barefooted  Friar's. 

He  's  expected  at  noon,  and  no  wight  till  he 

cornea 
Hay  profane  the  great  chair  or  the  porridge  of 

plunis  ; 
For  the  best  of  the  cheer,  and  the  seat  by  the 

Is  the  undenied  right  of  the  Barefooted  Friar. 

\pected  at  night,  and  the  pasty's  made 

hot. 
They  broach  the  brown  ale  and  they  fill  the 

black  i><>t  ; 
And  the  good-wife  would  wish  the  good-man  in 

the  mire, 

lacked   a  aofl   pillow,  the  Barefooted 

.11. 


Long  flourish  the  sandal,   the   cord,    and   the 

cope, 
The  dread  of  the  devil  and  trust  of  the  Pope  ! 
For  to  gather   life's  roses,   unscathed  by  the 

briar, 
Is  granted  alone  to  the  Barefooted  Friar. 


Kebecca's   l^gmn. 

When  Israel  of  the  Lord  beloved 

Out  from  the  land  of  bondage  came, 
Her  fathers'  God  before  her  moved, 

An  awful  guide  in  smoke  and  flame. 
By  day,  along  the  astonished  lands 

The  cloudy  pillar  glided  slow; 
By  night,  Arabia's  crimsoned  sands 

Returned  the  fiery  column's  glow. 

There  rose  the  choral  hymn  of  praise, 

And  trump  and  timbrel  answered  keen, 
And  Zion's  daughters  poured  their  lays, 

With  priest's  and  warrior's  voice  between. 
No  portents  now  our  foes  amaze, 

Forsaken  Israel  wanders  lone  : 
Our  fathers  would  not  know  Thy  ways, 

And  Thou  hast  left  them  to  their  own. 

But  present  still,  though  now  unseen, 

When  brightly  shines  the  prosperous  day, 
Be  thoughts  of  Thee  a  cloudy  screen 

To  temper  the  deceitful  ray  ! 
And  O,  when  stoops  on  Judah's  path 

In  shade  and  storm  the  frequent  night, 
Be  Thou,  long-suffering,  slow  to  wrath, 

A  burning  and  a  shining  light ! 

Our  harps  we  left  by  Babel's  streams, 

The  tyrant's  jest,  the  Gentile's  scorn  ; 
No  censer  round  our  altar  beams, 

And  mute  are  timbrel,  harp,  and  horn. 
But  Thou  hast  said,  The  blood  of  goat, 

The  flesh  of  rams  I  will  not  prize ; 
A  contrite  heart,  a  humble  thought. 

Are  mine  accepted  sacrifice. 


JFuneral  f&gmn. 

Dust  unto  dust, 
To  this  all  must ; 

The  tenant  hath  resigned 
The  faded  form 
To  waste  and  worm  — 

Corruption  claims  her  kind. 

Through  paths  unknown 
Thy  soul  hath  flown 

To  seek  the  realms  of  woe, 
Where  fiery  pain 
Shall  purge  the  stain 

Of  actions  done  below. 


SONGS  FROM  THE  NOVELS. 


533 


In  that  sad  place, 
By  Mary's  grace, 

Brief  may  thy  dwelling  be  ! 
Till  prayers  and  alms, 
And  holy  psalms, 

Shall  set  the  captive  free. 


From  "  The  Monastery:' 
[1820.] 

©n  Eixtt'o  Kite*. 

Merrily  swim  we,  the  moon  shines  bright, 
Both  current  and  ripple  are  dancing  in  light. 
We  have  roused  the  night  raven,  I  heard  him 

croak, 
As  we  plashed  along  beneath  the  oak 
That  flings  its  broad  branches  so  far  and  so 

wide, 
Their  shadows  are  dancing  in  midst  of  the  tide. 
'  Who  wakens  my  nestlings  ? '  the  raven  he  said, 
*  My  beak  shall  ere  morn  in  his  blood  be  red  ! 
For  a  blue  swollen  corpse  is  a  dainty  meal, 
And  I  '11  have  my  share  with  the  pike  and  the 

eel.' 

Merrily  swim  we,  the  moon  shines  bright, 
There 's  a  golden  gleam  on  the  distant  height : 
There  's  a  silver  shower  on  the  alders  dank, 
And  the   drooping  willows  that  wave  on  the 

bank. 
I  see  the  Abbey,  both  turret  and  tower, 
It  is  all  astir  for  the  vesper  hour  ; 
The  monks  for  the  chapel  are  leaving  each  cell, 
But  where 's  Father  Philip  should  toll  the  bell  ? 

Merrily  swim  we,  the  moon  shines  bright, 
Downward  we  drift  through  shadow  and  light, 
Under  yon  rock  the  eddies  sleep, 
Calm  and  silent,  dark  and  deep. 
The  Kelpy  has  risen  from  the  fathomless  pool, 
He  has  lighted  his  candle  of  death  and  of  dool : 
Look,  father,  look,  and  you  '11  laugh  to  see 
How  he  gapes  and  glares  with  his  eyes  on  thee ! 

Good  luck  to  your  fishing,  whom  watch  ye  to- 
night ? 

A  man  of  mean  or  a  man  of  might  ? 

Is  it  layman  or  priest  that  must  float  in  your 
cove, 

Or  lover  who  crosses  to  visit  his  love  ? 

Hark  !  heard  ye  the  Kelpy  reply  as  we  passed, 

'  God's  blessing  on  the  warder,  he  locked  the 
bridge  fast ! 

All  that  come  to  my  cove  are  sunk, 

Priest  or  layman,  lover  or  monk.' 


Landed  —  landed  !  the  black  book  hath  won, 
Else  had  you  seen  Berwick  with  morning  sun ! 
Sain  ye,  and  save  ye,  and  blithe  mot  ye  be, 
For  seldom  they  land  that  go  swimming  with 
me. 


®o  the  $ufcs$rior. 

Good  evening,  Sir  Priest,  and  so  late  as  you  ride, 
With  your  mule  so  fair  and  your  mantle  so  wide ; 
But  ride  you  through  valley  or  ride  you  o'er  hill, 
There  is  one  that  has  warrant  to  wait  on  you  still. 
Back,  back, 
•  The  volume  black ! 
I  have  a  warrant  to  carry  it  back. 

What,  ho !  Sub- Prior,  and  came  you  but  here 
To  conjure  a  book  from  a  dead  woman's  bier? 
Sain  you  and  save  you,  be  wary  and  wise, 
Ride  back  with  the  book,  or  you  '11  pay  for  your 
prize. 

Back,  back, 

There  's  death  in  the  track  ! 
In  the  name  of  my  master,  I  bid  thee  bear  back. 

That  which  is  neither  ill  nor  well, 
That  which  belongs  not  to  heaven  nor  to  hell, 
A  wreath  of  the  mist,  a  bubble  of  the  stream, 
'Twixt  a  waking  thought  and  a  sleeping  dream ; 

A  form  that  men  spy 

With  the  half-shut  eye 
In  the  beams  of  the  setting  sun,  am  I. 

Vainly,  Sir  Prior,  wouldst  thou  bar  me  my  right  ! 
Like  the  star  when  it  shoots,  I  can  dart  through 

the  night ; 
I  can  dance  on  the  torrent  and  ride  on  the  air, 
And  travel  the  world  with  the  bonny  night-mare. 

Again,  again, 

At  the  crook  of  the  glen, 
Where  bickers  the  burnie,  I  '11  meet  thee  again. 

Men  of  good  are  bold  as  sackless, 
Men  of  rude  are  wild  and  reckless. 

Lie  thou  still 

In  the  nook  of  the  hill, 
For  those  be  before  thee  that  wish  thee  ill. 


iSortier  BallatJ. 


March,  march,  Ettrick  and  Teviotdale, 

Why  the  deil  dinna  ye  march   forward  in 
order  ? 
March,  march,  Eskdale  and  Liddesdale, 

All  the    Blue    Bonnets  are  bound  for  the 
Border. 
Many  a  banner  spread 
Flutters  above  your  head, 
Many  a  crest  that  is  famous  in  story. 
Mount  and  make  ready  then, 
Sons  of  the  mountain  glen, 
Fight  for  the  Queen  and  our  old  Scottish 
glory. 

2. 
Come  from  the  hills  where  your  hirsels  are 
grazing, 
Come  from  the  glen  of  the  buck  and  the  roe  ; 
Come  to  the  crag  where  the  beacon  is  blazing, 
Come  with  the  buckler,  the  lance,  and  the  bow. 
Trumpets  are  sounding, 
War-steeds  are  bounding, 


534 


APPENDIX. 


Stand  to  your   arms  and  march   in  good 
order ; 
England  shall  many  a  day 
Tell  of  the  bloody  fray, 
When  the   Blue  Bonnets  came  over  the 
Border. 


From  "  The  Pirate" 
i8ti.] 

ClauUc  $alcro's  $onfl. 

Farewell  to  Northmaven, 

Gray  Hillswicke,  farewell ! 
To  the  calms  of  thy  haven, 

The  storms  on  thy  fell  — 
To  each  breeze  that  can  vary 

The  mood  of  thy  main, 
And  to  thee,  bonny  Mary  ! 

We  meet  not  again  ! 

Farewell  the  wild  ferry, 

Which  Hacon  could  brave 
When  the  peaks  of  the  Skerry 

Were  white  in  the  wave. 
There  's  a  maid  may  look  over 

These  wild  waves  in  vain 
For  the  skiff  of  her  lover  — 

He  comes  not  again  ! 

The  vows  thou  hast  broke, 

On  the  wild  currents  fling  them 
On  the  quicksand  and  rock 

Let  the  mermaidens  sing  them  : 
New  sweetness  they  '11  give  her 

Bewildering  strain  ; 
But  there 's  one  who  will  never 

Relieve  them  again. 

O,  were  there  an  island, 

Though  ever  so  wild, 
Where  woman  could  smile,  and 

No  man  be  beguiled  — 
Too  tempting  a  snare 

To  poor  mortals  were  given  ; 
And  the  hope  would  fix  there 

That  should  anchor  in  heaven. 


$ong  of  IDarolti  tyarfagcr. 

Tin   inn  is  rising  dimly  red, 

Tin-  wind  is  wailing  low  and  dread  ; 

From  his  cliff  the  eagle  sallies, 

his  darksome  valleys 
In  the  mist  the  ravens  hover, 

tlu-  wild  dogs  from  the  cover, 
inning,  croaking,  baying,  yelling, 
n  his  wild  accents  telling, 
•  Soon  we  feasl  on  dead  and  dying, 

Fair  haired  II  an -Id's  flag  is  flying.' 

\lanv  a  i  real  on  air  is  streaming, 
Mam  a  hclnx  i  darkly  gleaming, 
Many  an  arm  tin    a\r  up  rears, 

ltd  to  law  the  wood  of  speai  s. 


All  along  the  crowded  ranks 
Horses  neigh  and  armor  clanks ; 
Chiefs  are  shouting,  clarions  ringing, 
Louder  still  the  bard  is  singing, 
'  Gather  footmen,  gather  horsemen, 
To  the  field,  ye  valiant  Norsemen  ! 

\  Halt  ye  not  for  food  or  slumber, 
View  not  vantage,  count  not  number  : 
Jolly  reapers,  forward  still, 
Grow  the  crop  on  vale  or  hill, 
Thick  or  scattered,  stiff  or  lithe, 
It  shall  down  before  the  scythe. 
Forward  with  your  sickles  bright, 
Reap  the  harvest  of  the  fight. 
Onward  footmen,  onward  horsemen, 
To  the  charge,  ye  gallant  Norsemen ! 

'  Fatal  Choosers  of  the  Slaughter, 

O'er  you  hovers  Odin's  daughter ; 

Hear  the  choice  she  spreads  before  ye  — 

Victory,  and  wealth,  and  glory  ; 

Or  old  Valhalla's  roaring  hail, 

Her  ever-circling  mead  and  ale, 

Where  for  eternity  unite 

The  joys  of  wassail  and  of  fight. 

Headlong  forward,  foot  and  horsemen, 

Charge  and  fight,  and  die  like  Norsemen  ! ' 


$onfi  of  the  SctlantJ  JFtsherman. 

Farewell,   merry  maidens,   to  song  and  to 

laugh, 
For  the  brave  lads  of  Westra  are  bound  to  the 

Haaf ; 
And  we  must  have  labor  and  hunger  and  pain, 
Ere  we  dance  with  the  maids  of  Dunrossness 

again. 

For  now,  in  our  trim  boats  of  Noroway  deal, 
We  must  dance  on  the  waves  with  the  porpoise 

and  seal ; 
The  breeze  it  shall  pipe,  so  it  pipe  not  too  high, 
And  the  gull  be  our  songstress  whene'er  she 

flits  by. 

Sing  on,  my  brave  bird,  while  we  follow,  like 

thee, 
By  bank,  shoal,  and  quicksand,  the  swarms  of 

the  sea ; 
And  when  twenty-score  fishes  are  straining  our 

line, 
Sing  louder,  brave  bird,  for  their  spoils  shall 

be  thine. 

We  '11  sing  while  we  bait  and  we  '11  sing  while 

we  haul, 
For  the  deeps  of  the  Haaf  have  enough  for  us 

all: 
There  is  torsk  for  the  gentle  and  skate  for  the 

carle, 
And  there 's  wealth  for  bold  Magnus,  the  son 

of  the  earl. 

Huzza !  my  brave  comrades,  give  way  for  the 

Haaf, 
We  shall  sooner  come  back  to  the  dance  and 

the  laugh ; 


SONGS  FROM   THE  NOVELS. 


535 


For  light  without  mirth  is  a  lamp  without  oil ; 
Then,  mirth  and  long  life  to  the  bold  Magnus 
Troil ! 


Cleoeiano's  &onas. 

Love  wakes  and  weeps 

While  Beauty  sleeps  ! 
O,  for  Music's  softest  numbers, 

To  prompt  a  theme 

For  Beauty's  dream, 
Soft  as  the  pillow  of  her  slumbers ! 

Through  groves  of  palm 

Sigh  gales  of  balm, 
Fire-flies  on  the  air  are  wheeling  ; 

While  through  the  gloom 

Comes  soft  perfume, 
The  distant  beds  of  flowers  revealing. 

O  wake  and  live  ! 

No  dream  can  give 
A  shadowed  bliss,  the  real  excelling  ; 

No  longer  sleep 

From  lattice  peep 
And  list  the  tale  that  Love  is  telling. 


Farewell  !    Farewell !  the  voice  you  hear 
Has  left  its  last  soft  tone  with  you,  — 

Its  next  must  join  the  seaward  cheer, 
And  shout  among  the  shouting  crew. 

The  accents  which  I  scarce  could  form 
Beneath  your  frown's  controlling  check 

Must  give  the  word,  above  the  storm, 
To  cut  the  mast  and  clear  the  wreck. 

The  timid  eye  I  dared  not  raise,  — 

The  hand  that  shook  when  pressed  to  thine, 

Must  point  the  guns  upon  the  chase  — 
Must  bid  the  deadly  cutlass  shine. 

To  all  I  love  or  hope  or  fear, 

Honor  or  own,  a  long  adieu  ! 
To  all  that  life  has  soft  and  dear 

Farewell !  save  memory  of  you  ! 


From  "  Quentin  Durward" 

[1823.] 

Counts  Oug. 

Ah  !  County  Guy,  the  hour  is  nigh, 

The  sun  has  left  the  lea, 
The  orange  flower  perfumes  the  bower, 

The  breeze  is  on  the  sea. 
The  lark  his  lay  who  thrilled  all  day 

Sits  hushed  his  partner  nigh  ; 
Breeze,  bird,  and  flower  confess  the  hour, 

But  where  is  County  Guy  ? 


The  village  maid  steals  through  the  shade, 

Her  shepherd's  suit  to  hear; 
To  beauty  shy  by  lattice  high 

Sings  high-born  Cavalier. 
The  star  of  Love,  all  stars  above, 

Now  reigns  o'er  earth  and  sky  ; 
And  high  and  low  the  influence  know  — 

But  where  is  County  Guy  ! 


From  "  The  Betrothed:' 

[1825.] 

%aXoitx,  SHake! 

Soldier,  wake  —  the  day  is  peeping, 
Honor  ne'er  was  won  in  sleeping, 
Never  when  the  sunbeams  still 
Lay  unreflected  on  the  hill : 
'T  is  when  they  are  glinted  back 
From  axe  and  armor,  spear  and  jack, 
That  they  promise  future  story 
Many  a  page  of  deathless  glory. 
Shields  that  are  the  foeman's  terror 
Ever  are  the  morning's  mirror. 

Arm  and  up  —  the  morning  beam 
Hath  called  the  rustic  to  his  team, 
Hath  called  the  falconer  to  the  lake, 
Hath  called  the  huntsman  to  the  brake  j 
The  early  student  ponders  o'er 
His  dusty  tomes  of  artcient  lore. 
Soldier,  wake  —  thy  harvest,  fame  ; 
Thy  study,  conquest;  war,  thy  game. 
Shield  that  would  be  foeman's  terror 
Still  should  gleam  the  morning's  mirror. 

Poor  hire  repays  the  rustic's  pain, 
More  paltry  still  the  sportsman's  gain. 
Vainest  of  all,  the  student's  theme 
Ends  in  some  metaphysic  dream  : 
Yet  each  is  up  and  each  has  toiled 
Since  first  the  peep  of  dawn  has  smiled  ; 
And  each  is  eagerer  in  his  aim 
Than  he  who  barters  life  for  fame. 
Up,  up,  and  arm  thee,  son  of  terror  ! 
Be  thy  bright  shield  the  morning's  mirror ! 


Ehe  &ruth  of  OToman. 

Woman's  faith  and  woman's  trust  — 
Write  the  characters  in  dust ; 
Stamp  them  on  the  running  stream, 
Print  them  on  the  moon's  pale  beam, 
And  each  evanescent  letter 
Shall  be  clearer,  firmer,  better, 
And  more  permanent,  I  ween, 
Than  the  thing  those  letters  mean. 


536 


APPENDIX. 


I  have  strained  the  spider's  thread 

'Gainst  the  promise  of  a  maid  ; 

I  have  weighed  a  grain  of  sand 

'Gainst  her  plight  of  heart  and  hand; 

I  told  my  true  love  of  the  token, 

How  her  faith  proved  light  and  her  word  was 

broken : 
Again  her  word  and  truth  she  plight, 
And  I  believed  them  again  ere  night. 


From  "  Woodstock." 

[1826.] 

&n  $our  toith  Wc\tt. 

An  hour  with  thee  !  —  When  earliest  day 
Dapples  with  gold  the  eastern  gray, 
O,  what  can  frame  my  mind  to  bear 
The  toil  and  turmoil,  cark  and  care, 
New  griefs  which  coming  hours  unfold, 
And  sad  remembrance  of  the  old?  — 

One  hour  with  thee. 

One  hour  with  thee  !  —  When  burning  June 
Waves  his  red  flag  at  pitch  of  noon, 
What  shall  repay  the  faithful  swain 
His  labor  on  the  sultry  plain, 
And  more  than  cave  or  sheltering  bough 
Cool  feverish  blood  and  throbbing  brow  ?  — 
One  hour  with  thee. 

One  hour  with  thee !  —  When  sun  is  sets 
O,  what  can  teach  me  to  forget 
The  thankless  labors  of  the  day; 
The  hopes,  the  wishes,  flung  away  ; 
The  increasing  wants  and  lessening  gains, 
The  master's  pride  who  scorns  my  pains  ?  — 
One  hour  with  thee. 


From  "  The  Fair  Maid  of  Perth." 

[1828.] 

SThe  ILao  of  3Joor  ILoutse. 

An,  poor  Louise!  the  livelong  day 
She  roams  from  cot  to  castle  gay ; 
And  still  her  voice  and  viol  say, 
Ah,  maids,  beware  the  woodland  way, 
Think  on  Louise. 

Ah,  poor  I,ouise !  The  sun  was  high, 

It  smirched  her  cheek,  it  dimmed  her  eye, 


The  woodland  walk  was  cool  and  nigh, 
Where  birds  with  chiming  streamlets  vie 
To  cheer  Louise. 

Ah,  poor  Louise  !  The  savage  bear 
Made  ne'er  that  lovely  grove  his  lair ; 
The  wolves  molest  not  paths  so  fair  — 
But  better  far  had  such  been  there 

For  poor  Louise. 

Ah,  poor  Louise  !  In  woody  wold 
She  met  a  huntsman  fair  and  bold ; 
His  baldric  was  of  silk  and  gold, 
And  many  a  witching  tale  he  told 

To  poor  Louise. 

Ah,  poor  Louise !  Small  cause  to  pine 
Hadst  thou  for  treasures  of  the  mine ; 
For  peace  of  mind,  that  gift  divine, 
And  spotless  innocence,  were  thine, 
Ah,  poor  Louise ! 

Ah,  poor  Louise !  Thy  treasure  's  reft ! 
I  know  not  if  by  force  or  theft, 
Or  part  by  violence,  part  by  gift ; 
But  misery  is  all  that 's  left 

To  poor  Louise. 

Let  poor  Louise  some  succor  have  ! 
She  will  not  long  your  bounty  crave, 
Or  tire  the  gay  with  warning  stave  — 
For  Heaven  has  grace  and  earth  a  grave 
For  poor  Louise. 


Song  of  tht  ffifefHatont. 

Yes,  thou  mayst  sigh, 
And  look  once  more  at  all  around, 
At  stream  and  bank,  and  sky  and  ground. 
Thy  life  its  final  course  has  found, 

And  thou  must  die. 

Yes,  lay  thee  down, 
And  while  thy  struggling  pulses  flutter 
Bid  the  gray  monk  his  soul-mass  mutter, 
And  the  deep  bell  its  death-tone  utter  — 

Thy  life  is  gone. 

Be  not  afraid. 
T  is  but  a  pang  and  then  a  thrill, 
A  fever  fit  and  then  a  chill ; 
And  then  an  end  of  human  ill, 

For  thou  art  dead. 


SONGS  FROM   THE  PLAYS. 


537 


g>cmgs  from  tf)e  piaps. 


From  "  The  Doom  of  Devorgoil." 

Wqt  &rm  upon  the  Hake. 

The  sun  upon  the  lake  is  low, 

The  wild  birds  hush  their  song, 
The  hills  have  evening's  deepest  glow, 

Yet  Leonard  tarries  long. 
Now  all  whom  varied  toil  and  care 

From  home  and  love  divide, 
In  the  calm  sunset  may  repair 

Each  to  the  loved  one's  side. 

The  noble  dame,  on  turret  high 

Who  waits  her  gallant  knight, 
Looks  to  the  western  beam  to  spy 

The  flash  of  armor  bright. 
The  village  maid,  with  hand  on  brow 

The  level  ray  to  shade, 
Upon  the  footpath  watches  now 

For  Colin's  darkening  plaid. 

Now  to  their  mates  the  wild  swans  row, 

By  day  they  swam  apart ; 
And  to  the  thicket  wanders  slow 

The  hind  beside  the  hart. 
The  woodlark  at  his  partner's  side 

Twitters  his  closing  song  — 
All  meet  whom  day  and  care  divide, 

But  Leonard  tarries  long. 


Somite  not  that  E  (SamrtJ. 

Admire  not  that  I  gained  the  prize 

From  all  the  village  crew  ; 
How  could  I  fail  with  hand  or  eyes 

When  heart  and  faith  were  true  ? 

And  when  in  floods  of  rosy  wine 
My  comrades  drowned  their  cares, 

I  thought  but  that  thy  heart  was  mine, 
My  own  leapt  light  as  theirs. 

My  brief  delay  then  do  not  blame, 
Nor  deem  your  swain  untrue  ; 

My  form  but  lingered  at  the  game, 
My  soul  was  still  with  you. 


®mhen  the  tempest 

When  the  tempest 's  at  the  loudest 

On  its  gale  the  eagle  rides  ; 
When  the  ocean  rolls  the  proudest 

Through  the  foam  the  sea-bird  glides  ■ 
All  the  rage  of  wind  and  sea 
Is  subdued  by  constancy. 

Gnawing  want  and  sickness  pining, 
All  the  ills  that  men  endure, 


Each  their  various  pangs  combining, 

Constancy  can  find  a  cure  — 
Pain  and  Fear  and  Poverty 
Are  subdued  by  constancy. 

Bar  me  from  each  wonted  pleasure, 
Make  me  abject,  mean,  and  poor, 

Heap  on  insults  without  measure, 
Chain  me  to  a  dungeon  floor  — 

I  '11  be  happy,  rich,  and  free, 

If  endowed  with  constancy. 


Bonng  IBtmoee. 

Air  —  "  The  Bonnets  of  Bonny  Dundee." 

To  the  Lords  of  Convention  'twas  Claver'se 

who  spoke, 
'  Ere   the   King's  crown   shall  fall  there  are 

crowns  to  be  broke ; 
So  let  each   Cavalier  who  loves    honor  and 

me, 
Come  follow  the  bonnet  of  Bonny  Dundee. 

Come  fill  up  my  cup,  come  fill  up  my  can, 
Come  saddle  your  horses  and  call  up 

your  men ; 
Come  open  the  West  Port  and  let  me 

gang  free, 
And  it 's  room  for  the  bonnets  of  Bonny 
Dundee  ! ' 

Dundee  he  is  mounted,  he  rides  up  the  street, 
The  bells  are  rung  backward,- the  drums  they 

are  beat ; 
But  the  Provost,  douce  man,  said,  '  Just  e'en  let 

him  be, 
The  Gude  Town  is  weel  quit  of  that  Deil  of 

Dundee.' 
Come  fill  up  my  cup,  etc. 

As  he  rode  down  the  sanctified  bends  of  the 

Bow, 
Ilk  carline  was  flyting  and  shaking  her  pow  ; 
But  the   young   plants   of  grace   they   looked 

couthie  and  slee, 
Thinking,   luck    to    thy  bonnet,   thou    Bonny 

Dundee ! 

Come  fill  up  my  cup,  etc. 

With  sour-featured  Whigs  the  Grassmarket  was 

crammed 
As  if  half  the  West  had  set  tryst  to  be  hanged  ; 
There  was  spite  in  each  look,  there  was  fear  in 

each  e'e, 
As  they  watched  for  the   bonnets   of   Bonny 

Dundee. 

Come  fill  up  my  cup,  etc. 


538 


APPENDIX. 


These  cowls  of  Kilmarnock  had  spits  and  had 
spears, 

And  lang-hafted  gullies  to  kill  Cavaliers ; 

But  they  shrunk  to  close-heads  and  the  cause- 
way was  free, 

At  the  toss  of  the  bonnet  of  Bonny  Dundee. 
Come  fill  up  my  cup,  etc. 

He  spurred  to  the  foot  of  the  proud  Castle 

rock, 
And  with  the  gay  Gordon  he  gallantly  spoke  ; 
'Let  Mons  Meg  and  her  marrows  speak  twa 

words  or  three, 
For  the  love  of  the  bonnet  of  Bonny  Dundee.' 
Come  fill  up  my  cup,  etc. 

The  Gordon  demands  of  him  which  way  he 
goes  — 

'Where'er  shall  direct  me  the  shade  of  Mon- 
trose ! 

Your  Grace  in  short  space  shall  hear  tidings  of 
me, 

Or  that  low  lies  the  bonnet  of  Bonny  Dundee. 
Come  fill  up  my  cup,  etc. 

*  There  are  hills  beyond  Pentland  and  lands  be- 

yond Forth, 
If  there 's  lords  in  the  Lowlands,  there 's  chiefs 

in  the  North ; 
There  are  wild   Duniewassals  three  thousand 

times  three, 
Will  cry  hoigh  /  for  the  bonnet  of  Bonny  Dundee. 
Come  fill  up  my  cup,  etc. 

*  There 's  brass  on  the  target  of  barkened  bull- 

hide; 

There  's  steel  in  the  scabbard  that  dangles  be- 
side ; 

The  brass  shall  be  burnished,  the  steel  shall 
flash  free, 

At  a  toss  of  the  bonnet  of  Bonny  Dundee. 
Come  fill*up  my  cup,  etc. 

■  Away  to  the  hills,  to  the  caves,  to  the  rocks  — 
Ere  I  own  an  usurper,  I'll  couch  with  the  fox  ; 
And  tremble  false  Whigs,  in  the  midst  of  your 

dee, 
You  have  not  seen  the  last  of  my  bonnet  and 

me!' 
Come  fill  up  my  cup,  etc. 

He  waved  his  proud  hand  and  the  trumpets 

were  blown, 
The  kettle-drums  clashed,  and  the  horsemen 

rode  on, 


Till  on  Ravelston's  cliffs  and  on  Clermiston's  lee- 
Died  away  the  wild  war-notes  of  Bonny  Dundee. 
Come  fill  up  my  cup,  come  fill  up  my  can, 
Come  saddle  the  horses  and  call  up  the 

men, 
Come  open  your  gates  and  let  me  gae  free, 
For  it 's  up  with  the  bonnets  of  Bonny- 
Dundee  ! 


32Shen  JFricntis  are  fftet. 

When  friends  are  met  o'er  merry  cheer, 
And  lovely  eyes  are  laughing  near, 
And  in  the  goblet's  bosom  clear 

The  cares  of  day  are  drowned  ; 
When  puns  are  made  and  bumpers  quaffed, 
And  wild  Wit  shoots  his  roving  shaft, 
And  Mirth  his  jovial  laugh  has  laughed, 

Then  is  our  banquet  crowned, 
Ah  !  gay, 

Then  is  our  banquet  crowned. 

When  glees  are  sung  and  catches  trolled, 
And  bashfulness  grows  bright  and  bold, 
And  beauty  is  no  longer  cold, 

And  age  no  longer  dull  ; 
When  chimes  are  brief  and  cocks  do  crow 
To  tell  us  it  is  time  to  go, 
Yet  how  to  part  we  do  not  know, 

Then  is  our  feast  at  full, 
Ah !  gay, 

Then  is  our  feast  at  full. 


Either  toe  Come. 

Hither  we  come, 

Once  slaves  to  the  drum, 
But  no  longer  we  list  to  its  rattle  ; 

Adieu  to  the  wars, 

With  their  slashes  and  scars, 
The  march,  and  the  storm,  and  the  battle. 

There  are  some  of  us  maimed, 

And  some  that  are  lamed, 
And  some  of  old  aches  are  complaining  ; 

But  we  '11  take  up  the  tools 

Which  we  flung  by  like  fools, 
'Gainst  Don  Spaniard  to  go  a-campaigning. 

Dick  Hathorn  doth  vow 

To  return  to  the  plough, 
Jack  Steele  to  his  anvil  and  hammer ; 

The  weaver  shall  find  room 

At  the  wight-wapping  loom, 
And  your  clerk  shall  teach  writing  and  grammar. 


FRAGMENTS. 


539 


jFragmente. 


Cfje   ©rag   Brother. 

The  Pope  he  was  saying  the  high,  high  mass 

All  on  Saint  Peter's  day, 
With  the  power  to  him  given  by  the  saints  in 
heaven 

To  wash  men's  sins  away. 

The  Pope  he  was  saying  the  blessed  mass, 

And  the  people  kneeled  around, 
And  from  each  man's  soul  his  sins  did  pass, 

As  he  kissed  the  holy  ground. 

And  all  among  the  crowded  throng 

Was  still,  both  limb  and  tongue, 
While  through  vaulted  roof  and  aisles  aloof 

The  holy  accents  rung. 

At  the  holiest  word  he  quivered  for  fear, 

And  faltered  in  the  sound  — 
And  when  he  would  the  chalice  rear 

He  dropped  it  to  the  ground. 

'  The  breath  of  one  of  evil  deed 

Pollutes  our  sacred  day  ; 
He  has  no  portion  in  our  creed, 

No  part  in  what  I  say. 

4  A  being  whom  no  blessed  word 

To  ghostly  peace  can  bring, 
A  wretch  at  whose  approach  abhorred 

Recoils  each  holy  thing. 

*  Up,  up,  unhappy  !   haste,  arise  ! 

My  adjuration  fear ! 
I  charge  thee  not  to  stop  my  voice, 

Nor  longer  tarry  here  ! ' 

Amid  them  all  a  pilgrim  kneeled 

In  gown  of  sackcloth  gray  ; 
Far  journeying  from  his  native  field, 

He  first  saw  Rome  that  day. 

For  forty  days  and  nights  so  drear 

I  ween  he  had  not  spoke,      # 
And,  save  with  bread  and  water  clear, 

His  fast  he  ne'er  had  broke. 

Amid  the  penitential  flock, 

Seemed  none  more  bent  to  pray  ; 
But  when  the  Holy  Father  spoke 

He  rose  and  went  his  way. 

Again  unto  his  native  land 

His  weary  course  he  drew, 
To  Lothian's  fair  and  fertile  strand, 

And  Pentland's  mountains  blue. 

His  unblest  feet  his  native  seat 

Mid  Eske's  fair  woods  regain  ; 
Through  woods  more  fair  no  stream  more  sweet 

Rolls  to  the  eastern  main. 


And  lords  to  meet  the  pilgrim  came, 

And  vassals  bent  the  knee  ; 
For  all  mid  Scotland's  chiefs  of  fame 

Was  none  more  famed  than  he. 

And  boldly  for  his  country  still 

In  battle  he  had  stood, 
Ay,  even  when  on  the  banks  of  Till 

Her  noblest  poured  their  blood. 

Sweet  are  the  paths,  O  passing  sweet ! 

By  Eske's  fair  streams  that  run, 
O'er  airy  steep  through  copsewood  deep, 

Impervious  to  the  sun. 

There  the  rapt  poet's  step  may  rove, 

And  yield  the  muse  the  day ; 
There  Beauty,  led  by  timid  Love, 

May  shun  the  telltale  ray ; 

From  that  fair  dome  where  suit  is  paid 

By  blast  of  bugle  free, 
To  Auchendinny's  hazel  glade 

And  haunted  Woodhouselee. 

Who  knows  not  Melville's  beechy  grove 

And  Roslin's  rocky  glen, 
Dalkeith,  which  all  the  virtues  love, 

And  classic  Hawthornden  ? 

Yet  never  a  path  from  day  to  day 

The  pilgrim's  footsteps  range, 
Save  but  the  solitary  way 

To  Burndale's  ruined  grange. 

A  woful  place  was  that,  I  ween, 

As  sorrow  could  desire  ; 
For  nodding  to  the  fall  was  each  crumbling 
wall, 

And  the  roof  was  scathed  with  fire. 

It  fell  upon  a  summer's  eve, 

While  on  Carnethy's  head 
The  last  faint  gleams  of  the  sun's  low  beams 

Had  streaked  the  gray  with  red, 

And  the  convent  bell  did  vespers  tell 

Newbattle's  oaks  among, 
And  mingled  with  the  solemn  knell 

Our  Ladye's  evening  song ; 

The  heavy  knell,  the  choir's  faint  swell, 

Came  slowly  down  the  wind, 
And  on  the  pilgrim's  ear  they  fell. 

As  his  wonted  path  he  did  find. 

Deep  sunk  in  thought,  I  ween,  he  was, 

Nor  ever  raised  his  eye, 
Until  he  came  to  that  dreary  place 

Which  did  all  in  ruins  lie. 


540 


APPENDIX. 


He  gazed  on  the  walls,  so  scathed  with  fire, 

With  many  a  bitter  groan  — 
And  there  was  aware  of  a  Gray  Friar 

Resting  him  on  a  stone. 

•  Now,  Christ  thee  save  ! '  said  the  Gray  Brother : 
1  Some  pilgrim  thou  seemest  to  be.' 

But  in  sore  amaze  did  Lord  Albert  gaze, 
Nor  answer  again  made  he. 

'O,  come  ye  from  east  or  come  ye  from  west, 
Or  bring  reliques  from  over  the  sea ; 

Or  come  ye  from  the  shrine  of  Saint  James  the 
divine, 
Or  Saint  John  of  Beverley  ? ' 

'  I  come  not  from  the  shrine  of  Saint  James  the 
divine, 

Nor  bring  reliques  from  over  the  sea ; 
I  bring  but  a  curse  from  our  father,  the  Pope, 

Which  forever  will  cling  to  me.' 

'  Now,  woful  pilgrim,  say  not  so  ! 

But  kneel  thee  down  to  me, 
And  shrive  thee  so  clean  of  thy  deadly  sin 

That  absolved  thou  mayst  be.' 

1  And  who  art'  thou,  thou  Gray  Brother, 

That  I  should  shrive  to  thee, 
When  He  to  whom  are  given  the  keys  of  earth 
and  heaven 

Has  no  power  to  pardon  me  ? ' 

'  O,  I  am  sent  from  a  distant  clime, 

Five  thousand  miles  away, 
And  all  to  absolve  a  foul,  foul  crime, 

Done  here  'twixt  night  and  day.' 

The  pilgrim  kneeled  him  on  the  sand, 

And  thus  began  his  saye  — 
When  on  his  neck  an  ice-cold  hand 

Did  that  Gray  Brother  laye. 


Bothtoell   dastlr. 

L«  799-1 

WirEN  fruitful  Clydesdale's  apple-bowers 

Are  mellowing  in  the  noon  ; 
When  sighs  round  Pembroke's  ruined  towers 

I  DC  sultry  breath  of  June  ; 

When  Clyde,  despite  his  sheltering  wood, 

Mum  leave  his  channel  dry, 
And  vainly  o'er  the  limpid  flood 
ingler  guides  his  fly  ; 

It  chance  by  Bothwell's  lovely  braes 

A  win-!.  m  r  thou  hast  been, 
I  )r  hid  thee  from  the  summer's  blaze 

In  Blantyre's  Lowers  of  green, 


Full  where  the  copsewood  opens  wild 

Thy  pilgrim  step  hath  staid, 
Where  Bothwell's  towers  in  ruin  piled 

O'erlook  the  verdant  glade  ; 

And  many  a  tale  of  love  and  fear 
Hath  mingled  with  the  scene  — 

Of  Bothwell's  banks  that  bloomed  so  dear 
And  Bothwell's  bonny  Jean. 

O,  if  with  rugged  minstrel  lays 

Unsated  be  thy  ear, 
And  thou  of  deeds  of  other  days 

Another  tale  wilt  hear, — 

Then  all  beneath  the  spreading  beech, 

Flung  careless  on  the  lea, 
The  Gothic  muse  the  tale  shall  teach 

Of  Bothwell's  sisters  three. 

Wight  Wallace  stood  on  Deckmont  head, 

He  blew  his  bugle  round, 
Till  the  wild  bull  in  Cadyow  wood 

Has  started  at  the  sound. 

Saint  George's  cross,  o'er  Bothwell  hung, 

Was  waving  far  and  wide, 
And  from  the  lofty  turret  flung 

Its  crimson  blaze  on  Clyde  ; 

And  rising  at  the  bugle  blast 
That  marked  the  Scottish  foe, 

Old  England's  yeomen  mustered  fast, 
And  bent  the  Norman  bow. 

Tall  in  the  midst  Sir  Aylmer  rose, 

Proud  Pembroke's  Earl  was  he  — 
While—       . 


&he  Shepherds   3Tak\ 
[1799] 


And  ne'er  but  once,  my  son,  he  says, 

Was  yon  sad  cavern  trod, 
In  persecution's,  iron  days 

When  the  land  was  left  by  God. 

From  Bewlie  bog  with  slaughter  red 

A  wanderer  hither  drew, 
And  oft  he  stopt  and  turned  his  head, 

As  by  fits  the  night  wind  blew  ; 

For  trampling  round  by  Cheviot  edge 

Were  heard  the  troopers  keen, 
And  frequent  from  the  Whitelavv  ridge 

The  death-shot  flashed  between. 

The  moonbeams  through  the  misty  shower 

On  yon  dark  cavern  fell ; 
Through  the  cloudy  night  the  snow  gleamed 
white, 

Which  sunbeam  ne'er  could  quell. 


FRAGMENTS. 


541 


m\^f\ 


-V^'Vi 


'  Yon  cavern  dark  is  rough  and  rude, 

And  cold  its  jaws  of  snow  ; 
But  more  rough  and  rude  are  the  men  of  blood 

That  hunt  my  life  below  ! 

'  Yon  spell-bound  den,  as  the  aged  tell, 

Was  hewn  by  demon's  hands  ; 
But  I  had  lourd  melle  with  the  fiends  of  hell 

Than  with  Clavers  and  his  band.' 

He  heard  the  deep-mouthed  bloodhound  bark, 

He  heard  the  horses  neigh, 
He  plunged  him  in  the  cavern  dark, 

And  downward  sped  his  way. 

Now  faintly  down  the  winding  path 
Came  the  cry  of  the  faulting  hound, 

And  the  muttered  oath  of  balked  wrath 
Was  lost  in  hollow  sound. 

He  threw  him  on  the  flinted  floor, 

And  held  his  breath  for  fear ; 
He  rose  and  bitter  cursed  his  foes, 

As  the  sounds  died  on  his  ear. 

'  O,  bare  thine  arm,  thou  battling  Lord, 

For  Scotland's  wandering  band ; 
Dash  from  the  oppressor's  grasp  the  sword, 

And  sweep  him  from  the  land  ! 

*  Forget  hot  thou  thy  people's  groans 

From  dark  Dunnotter's  tower, 
Mixed  with  the  sea-fowl's  shrilly  moans 

And  ocean's  bursting  roar  ! 


'  O,  in  fell  Clavers'  hour  of  pride, 

Even  in  his  mightiest  day, 
As  bold  he  strides  through  conquest's  tide, 

O,  stretch  him  on  the  clay  ! 

1  His  widow  and  his  little  ones, 

O,  may  their  tower  of  trust 
Remove  its  strong  foundation  stones, 

And  crush  them  in  the  dust ! ' 

1  Sweet  prayers  to  me,'  a  voice  replied, 
*  Thrice  welcome,  guest  of  mine  ! ' 

And  glimmering  on  the  cavern  side 
A  light  was  seen  to  shine. 

An  aged  man  in  amice  brown 

Stood  by  the  wanderer's  side, 
By  powerful  charm  a  dead  man's  arm 

The  torch's  light  supplied. 

From  each  stiff  finger  stretched  upright 

Arose  a  ghastly  flame, 
That  waved  not  in  the  blast  of  night 

Which  through  the  cavern  came. 

O,  deadly  blue  was  that  taper's  hue 

That  flamed  the  cavern  o'er, 
But  more  deadly  blue  was  the  ghastly  hue 

Of  his  eyes  who  the  taper  bore. 

He  laid  on  his  head  a  hand  like  lead, 

As  heavy,  pale,  and  cold  *— 
'  Vengeance  be  thine,  thou  guest  of  mine, 

If  thy  heart  be  firm  and  bold. 


542 


APPENDIX. 


'  But  if  faint  thy  heart,  and  caitiff  fear 

Thy  recreant  sinews  know, 
The  mountain  erne  thy  heart  shall  tear, 

Thy  nerves  the  hooded  crow.' 

The  wanderer  raised  him  undismayed  : 

•  My  soul,  by  dangers  steeled, 
Is  stubborn  as  my  Border  blade, 

Which  never  knew  to  yield. 

'  And  if  thy  power  can  speed  the  hour 

Of  vengeance  on  my  foes, 
Theirs  be  the  fate  from  bridge  and  gate 

To  feed  the  hooded  crows.' 

The  Brownie  looked  him  in  the  face, 

And  his  color  fled  with  speed  — 
■ 1  fear  me,'  quoth  he,  '  uneath  it  will  be 

To  match  thy  word  and  deed. 

'  In  ancient  days  when  English  bands 

Sore  ravaged  Scotland  fair, 
The  sword  and  shield  of  Scottish  land 

Was  valiant  Halbert  Kerr 

*  A  warlock  loved  the  warrior  well, 

Sir  Michael  Scott  by  name, 
And  he  sought  for  his  sake  a  spell  to  make, 
Should  the  Southern  foemen  tame. 

1 "  Look  thou,"  he  said,  "from  Cessford  head 

As  the  July  sun  sinks  low, 
And    when    glimmering    white    on    Cheviot's 
height 
Thou  shalt  spy  a  wreath  of  snow, 
The  spell  is  complete  which  shall  bring  to  thy 
feet 
The  haughty  Saxon  foe." 

1  For  many  a  year  wrought  the  wizard  here 

In  Cheviot's  bosom  low, 
Till    the    spell    was  complete    and  in  July's 
heat 

Appeared  December's  snow ; 
But  Cessford's  Halbert  never  came 

The  wondrous. cause  to  know. 

*  For  years  before  in  Bowden  aisle 

The  warrior's  bones  had  lain, 
And  after  short  while  by  female  guile 
Sir  Michael  Scott  was  slain. 

'  But  DM  and  my  brethren  in  this  cell 

His  mighty  charms  retain, — 
And  be  thai  can  audi  the  powerful  spell 

Shall  nVi  broad  Scotland  reign.' 

him  through  an  iron  door 
And  up  a  Winding  stair, 
And  in  wild  amaze  did  the  wanderer  gaze 
( )n  the  sight  which  opened  there. 

Through  the  gloomy  night  flashed  ruddy  light, 
A  thousand  torches  glow  ; 


The  cave  rose  high,  like  the  vaulted  sky, 
O'er  stalls  in  double  row. 

In  every  stall  of  that  endless  hall 

Stood  a  steed  in  barding  bright ; 
At  the  foot  of  each  steed,  all  armed  save  the 
head, 

Lay  stretched  a  stalwart  knight. 

In  each  mailed  hand  was  a  naked  brand  ; 

As  they  lay  on  the  black  bull's  hide, 
Each  visage  stern  did  upwards  turn 

With  eyeballs  fixed  and  wide. 

A  launcegay  strong,  full  twelve  ells  long, 

By  every  warrior  hung ; 
At  each  pommel  there  for  battle  yare 

A  Jedwood  axe  was  slung. 

The  casque  hung  near  each  cavalier  ; 

The  plumes  waved  mournfully 
At  every  tread  which  the  wanderer  made 

Through  the  hall  of  gramarye. 

The  ruddy  beam  of  the  torches'  gleam, 

That  glared  the  warriors  on, 
Reflected  light  from  armor  bright, 

In  noontide  splendor  shone. 

And  onward  seen  in  lustre  sheen, 

Still  lengthening  on  the  sight, 
Through  the  boundless   hall   stood  steeds  in 
stall, 

And  by  each  lay  a  sable  knight. 

Still  as  the  dead  lay  each  horseman  dread, 
And  moved  nor  limb  nor  tongue  ; 

Each  steed  stood  stiff  as  an  earthfast  cliff, 
Nor  hoof  nor  bridle  rung. 

No  sounds  through  all  the  spacious  hall 

The  deadly  still  divide, 
Save  where  echoes  aloof  from  the  vaulted  roof 

To  the  wanderer's  step  replied. 

At  length  before  his  wondering  eyes, 

On  an  iron  column  borne, 
Of  antique  shape  and  giant  size 

Appeared  a  sword  and  horn. 

* 
1  Now  choose  thee  here/  quoth  his  leader, 

'  Thy  venturous  fortune  try  ; 
Thy  woe  and  weal,  thy  boot  and  bale, 

In  yon  brand  and  bugle  lie.' 

To  the  fatal  brand  he  mounted  his  hand, 
But  his  soul  did  quiver  and  quail ; 

The  life-blood  did  start  to  his  shuddering  heart, 
And  left  him  wan  and  pale. 

The  brand  he  forsook,  and  the  horn  he  took 

To  'say  a  gentle  sound  ; 
But  so  wild  a  blast  from  the  bugle  brast 

That  the  Cheviot  rocked  around. 


FRAGMENTS. 


543 


From  Forth  to  Tees,  from  seas  to  seas, 

In  many  a  sightless,  soundless  rill, 

The  awful  bugle  rung  ; 

Feed  sparkling  Bowmont's  tide. 

On  Carlisle  wall  and  Berwick  withal 

To  arms  the  warders  sprung. 

Fair  shines  the  stream  by  bank  and  lea, 

As  wimpling  to  the  eastern  sea 

With  clank  and  clang  the  cavern  rang, 

She  seeks  Till's  sullen  bed, 

The  steeds  did  stamp  and  neigh  ; 

Indenting  deep  the  fatal  plain 

And  loud  was  the  yell  as  each  warrior  fell 

"Where  Scotland's  noblest,  brave  in  vain, 

Sterte  up  with  hoop  and  cry. 

Around  their  monarch  bled. 

1  Woe,  woe,'  they  cried,  '  thou  caitiff  coward, 

That  ever  thou  wert  born  ! 
Why  drew  ye  not  the  knightly  sword 

Before  ye  blew  the  horn  ? ' 

The  morning  on  the  mountain  shone 

And  on  the  bloody  ground, 
Hurled  from  the  cave  with  shivered  bone, 

The  mangled  wretch  was  found. 

And  still  beneath  the  cavern  dread 

Among  the  glidders  gray, 
A  shapeless  stone  with  lichens  spread 

Marks  where  the  wanderer  lay. 


CheiJtOt. 

[i799-l 


Go  sit  old  Cheviot's  crest  below, 
And  pensive  mark  the  lingering  snow 

In  all  his  scaurs  abide, 
And  slow  dissolving  from  the  hill 


And  westward  hills  on  hills  you  see, 
Even  as  old  Ocean's  mightiest  sea 

Heaves  high  her  waves  of  foam, 
Dark  and  snow-ridged  from  Cutsfeld's  wold 
To  the  proud  foot  of  Cheviot  rolled, 

Earth's  mountain  billows  come. 


West  ftefoer's   ®&eMmg. 

[1802.] 

O,  WILL  ye  hear  a  mirthful  bourd  ? 

Or  will  ye  hear  of  courtesie  ? 
Or  will  ye  hear  how  a  gallant  lord 

Was  wedded  to  a  gay  ladye  ? 

'  Ca'  out  the  kye,'  quo'  the  village  herd, 

As  he  stood  on  the  knowe, 
'  Ca'  this  ane's  nine  and  that  ane's  ten, 

And  bauld  Lord  William's  cow.' 

'  Ah  !  by  my  sooth,'  quoth  William  then, 
1  And  stands  it  that  way  now, 


544 


APPENDIX. 


When  knave  and  churl  have  nine  and  ten, 
That  the  lord  has  but  his  cow  ? 

'  I  swear  by  the  light  of  the  Michaelmas  moon, 

And  the  might  of  Mary  high, 
And  by  the  edge  of  my  braidsword  brown, 

They  shall  soon  say  Harden's  kye.' 

He  took  a  bugle  frae  his  side, 
With  names  carved  o'er  and  o'er  — 

Full  many  a  chief  of  meikle  pride 
That  Border  bugle  bore  — 

1 1«  blew  a  note  baith  sharp  and  hie 
Till  rock  and  water  rang  around  — 

Threescore  of  moss-troopers  and  three 
Have  mounted  at  that  bugle  sound. 

The  Michaelmas  moon  had  entered  then, 

And  ere  she  wan  the  full 
Ye  might  see  by  her  light  in  Harden  glen 

A  bow  o'  kye  and  a  bassened  bull. 

And  loud  and  loud  in  Harden  tower 
The  quaigh  gaed  round  wi'  meikle  glee; 
I  l5e  English  bcef  was  brought  in  bower 
And  the  English  ale  flowed  rnerrilie. 

And  mony  a  guest  from  Teviotsidc 
And  Yarrow's  Braes  was  there  : 


Was  never  a  lord  in  Scotland  wide 
That  made  more  dainty  fare. 

They  ate,  they  laughed,  they  sang  and  quaffed, 

Till  naught  on  board  was  seen, 
When  knight  and  squire  were  boune  to  dine, 

But  a  spur  of  silver  sheen. 


Lord  William  has  ta'en  his  berry-brown  steed 

A  sore  shent  man  was  he  ; 
'  Wait  ye,  my  guests,  a  little  speed  — 

Weel  feasted  ye  shall  be.' 

He  rode  him  down  by  Falsehope  burn 

His  cousin  dear  to  see, 
With  him  to  take  a  riding  turn  — 

Wat-draw-the-Sword  was  he. 


And  when  he  came  to  Falsehope  glen, 

Beneath  the  try  sting-tree, 
On  the  smooth  green  was  carved  plain, 

'  To  Lochwood  bound  are  we.' 

'  O,  if  they  be  gane  to  dark  Lochwood 
To  drive  the  Warden's  gear, 

Betwixt  our  names,  I  ween,  there 's  feud 
I  '11  go  and  have  my  share  : 


MOTTOES  FROM   THE  NOVELS. 


545 


1  For  little  reck  I  for  Johnstone's  feud, 

The  Warden  though  he  be.' 
So  Lord  William  is  away  to  dark  Lochwood 

With  riders  barely  three. 

The  Warden's  daughters  in  Lochwood  sate, 

Were  all  both  fair  and  gay, 
All  save  the  Lady  Margaret, 

And  she  was  wan  and  wae. 


The  sister  Jean  had  a  full  fair  skin, 
And  Grace  was  bauld  and  braw  ; 

But  the  leal-fast  heart  her  breast  within 
It  weel  was  worth  them  a'. 


Her  father 's  pranked  her  sisters  twa 

With  meikle  joy  and  pride  ; 
But  Margaret  maun  seek  Dundrennan's  wa' 

She  ne'er  can  be  a  bride. 


On  spear  and  casque  by  gallants  gent 
Her  sisters'  scarfs  were  borne, 

But  never  at  tilt  or  tournament 
Were  Margaret's  colors  worn. 


Her  sisters  rode  to  Thirlstane  bower, 

But  she  was  left  at  hame 
To  wander  round  the  gloomy  tower, 

And  sigh  young  Harden's  name. 

1  Of  all  the  knights,  the  knight  most  fair 

From  Yarrow  to  the  Tyne/ 
Soft  sighed  the  maid,  \  is  Harden's  heir, 

But  ne'er  can  he  be  mine ; 

'  Of  all  the  maids,  the  foulest  maid 

From  Teviot  to  the  Dee, 
Ah ! '  sighing  sad,  that  lady  said, 

'  Can  ne'er  young  Harden's  be.' 

She  looked  up  the  briery  glen, 

And  up  the  mossy  brae, 
And  she  saw  a  score  of  her  father's  men 

Yclad  in  the  Johnstone  gray. 

O,  fast  and  fast  they  downwards  sped 
The  moss  and  briers  among, 

And  in  the  midst  the  troopers  led 
A  shackled  knight  along. 


jWottoes  from  tlje  JScfoete* 


From  "  The  Antiquary." 

I  knew  Anselmo.    He  was  shrewd  and  prudent, 
Wisdom  and  cunning  had  their  shares  of  him ; 
But  he  was  shrewish  as  a  wayward  child, 
And  pleased  again  by  toys  which   childhood 

please  ; 
As  book  of  fables  graced  with  print  of  wood, 
Or. else  the  jingling  of  a  rusty  medal, 
Or  the  rare  melody  of  some  old  ditty 
That  first  was  sung  to  please    King   Pepin's 

cradle. 

1  Be  brave,'  she  cried, '  you  yet  may  be  our  guest. 
Our  haunted  room  was  ever  held  the  best : 
If  then  your  valor  can  the  fight  sustain 
Of  rustling  curtains  and  the  clinking  chain, 
If  your  courageous  tongue  have  powers  to  talk 
When  round  your  bed  the  horrid  ghost  shall 

walk, 
If  you  dare  ask  it  why  it  leaves  its  tomb, 
I  '11  see  your  sheets  well  aired  and  show  the 

room.' 

True  Story. 

Sometimes  he  thinks  that  Heaven  this  vision 

sent, 
And  ordered  all  the  pageants  as  they  went ; 
Sometimes     that     only    't  was    wild     Fancy's 

play, 
The  loose  and  scattered  relics  of  the  day. 


Beggar  !  —  the  only  freemen  of  your  Common 

wealth, 
Free  above  Scot-free,  that  observe  no  laws, 
Obey  no  governor,  use  no  religion 
But  what  they  draw  from  their  own  ancient 

customs 
Or    constitute    themselves,   yet    they   are    no 

rebels. 

Brome. 

Here  has  been  such  a  stormy  encounter 
Betwixt  my  cousin  Captain  and  this  soldier, 
About  I  know  not  what !  —  nothing,  indeed ; 
Competitions,  degrees,  and  comparatives 
Of  soldiership  !  ■— 

A  Faire  Quarrel. 

If  you  fail  honor  here, 
Never  presume  to  serve  her  any  more  ; 
Bid  farewell  to  the  integrity  of  arms, 
And  the  honorable  name  of  soldier 
Fall    from    you,    like    a    shivered  wreath    of 

laurel 
By  thunder  struck  from  a  desertlesse  forehead. 
A  Faire  Quarrel. 

The  Lord  Abbot  had  a  soul 
Subtile  and  quick,  and  searching  as  the  fire  : 
By  magic  stairs  he  went  as  deep  as  hell, 


35 


546 


APPENDIX. 


And  if  in  devils'  possession  gold  be  kept, 

He  brought  some  sure  from  thence  —  't  is  hid  in 

caves, 
Known,  save  to  me,  to  none  — 

The  Wonder  of  a  Kingdome. 

Many  great  ones 
Would  part  with  half  their  states,  to  have  the 

plan 
And  credit  to  beg  in  the  first  style.  — 

Beggar's  Bush. 

Who  is  he  ?  — One  that  for  the  lack  of  land 
Shall  fight  upon  the  water  —  he  hath  challenged 
Formerly  the  grand  whale  ;  and  by  his  titles 
Of  Leviathan,  Behemoth,  and  so  forth. 
He  tilted  with  a  sword-fish  —  Marry,  sir, 
Th'  aquatic  had  the  best  —  the  argument 
Still  galls  our  champion's  breech. 

Old  Play. 

Tell  me  not  of  it, friend — when  the  young  weep, 
Their  tears  are  lukewarm  brine; — from  our 

old  eyes 
Sorrow  falls  down  like  hail-drops  of  the  North, 
Chilling  the  furrows  of  our  withered  cheeks, 
Cold  as  our  hopes  and  hardened  as  our  feel- 
ing— 
Theirs,  as  they  fall,  sink  sightless  —  ours  recoil, 
Heap  the  fair  plain  and  bleaken  all  before  us. 

Old  Play. 

Remorse  —  she  ne'er  forsakes  us  !  — 
A  bloodhound  stanch  —  she  tracks  our  rapid 

step 
Through  the  wild  labyrinth  of  youthful  frenzy, 
Unheard,  perchance,  until  old  age  hath  tamed 

us; 
Then  in  our  lair,  when  Time  hath  chilled  our 

joints 
And  maimed  our  hope  of  combat  or  of  flight, 
We  hear  her  deep-mouthed  bay,  announcing 

Of  wrath  and  woe  and  punishment  that  bides  us. 

Old  Play. 

Still  in  his  dead  hand  clenched  remain  the 

strings 
That  thrill  his  father's  heart  —  e'en  as  the  limb, 
Lopped  off  and  laid  in  grave,  retains,  they  tell 

us. 
Strange  commerce  with  the  mutilated  stump, 
Whose  nerves  are  twinging  still  in  maimed  ex- 
istence. 

Old  Play. 

.  Life,  with  you, 

Olows  in  the  brain  and  dances  in  the  arteries; 
like   the  wine  some   joyous  guest  hath 
quaffed, 

That  glads  the  heart  and  elevates  the  fancy : 

Mine  is  the  poor  residuum  of  the  cup, 
Vapid  and  dull  and  tasteless,  only  soiling 
With  its  base  dregs  the  vessel  that  contains  it. 

Old  Play. 


Yes  !  I  love  Justice  well  —  as  well  as  you  do  — 
But,  since  the  good  dame 's  blind,  she  shall  ex- 
cuse me, 
If,  time  and  reason  fitting,  I  prove  dumb  ;  — 
The  breath  I  utter  now  shall  be  no  means 
To  take  away  from  me  my  breath  in  future. 

Old  Play. 

Well,  well,  at  worst,  't  is  neither  theft  nor  coin- 
age, 
Granting  I  knew  all  that  you  charge  *me  with. 
What  tho'  the  tomb  hath  born  a  second  birth 
And  given  the  wealth  to  one  that  knew  not  on't, 
Yet  fair  exchange  was  never  robbery, 
Far  less  pure  bounty  — 

Old  Play. 

Life  ebbs  from  such  old  age,  unmarked  and 

silent, 
As  the  slow  neap-tide  leaves  yon  stranded  galley. 
Late  she  rocked  merrily  at  the  least  impulse 
That  wind  or  wave  could  give ;  but  now  her 

keel 
Is  settling  on  the  sand,  her  mast  has  ta'en 
An  angle  with  the  sky  from  which  it  shifts  not. 
Each  wave  receding  shakes  her  less  and  less, 
Till,  bedded  on  the  strand,  she  shall  remain 
Useless  as  motionless. 

Old  Play. 

So,  while  the  Goose,  of  whom  the  fable  told, 
Incumbent  brooded  o'er  her  eggs  of  gold, 
With  hand  outstretched  impatient  to  destroy, 
Stole  on  her  secret  nest  the  cruel  Boy, 
Whose  gripe  rapacious  changed  her  splendid 

dream 
For  wings  vain  fluttering  and  for  dying  scream. 
The  Loves  of  the  Sea-  Weeds. 

Let  those  go  see  who  will  —  I  like  it  not  — 
For,  say  he  was  a  slave  to  rank  and  pomp, 
And  all  the  nothings  he  is  now  divorced  from 
By  the  hard  doom  of  stern  necessity  ; 
Yet  is  it  sad  to  mark  his  altered  brow, 
Where  Vanity  adjusts  her  flimsy  veil 
O'er  the  deep  wrinkles  of  repentant  Anguish. 

Old  Play. 

Fortune,  you  say,  flies  from  us  — She  but 

circles, 
Like  the  fleet  sea-bird  round  the  fowler's  skiff,— 
Lost  in  the  mist  one  moment,  and  the  next 
Brushing  the  white  sail  with  her  whiter  wing, 
As  if  to  court  the  aim.  —  Experience  watches, 
And  has  her  on  the  wheel.  — 

Old  Play. 


From  "The  Black  Dwarf" 

The  bleakest  rock  upon  the  loneliest  heath 
Feels  in  its  barrenness  some  touch  of  spring  ; 
And,  in  the  April  dew  or  beam  of  May, 
Its  moss  and  lichen  freshen  and  revive ; 


MOTTOES  FROM   THE  NOVELS. 


S47 


And   thus   the    heart,   most  seared   to   human 

pleasure, 
Melts  at  the  tear,  joys  in  the  smile  of  woman. 

Beaumont. 

'T  was  time  and  griefs 
That  framed  him  thus :  Time,  with  his  fairer 

hand, 
Offering  the  fortunes  of  his  former  days, 
The  former  man  may  make  him  —  Bring  us  to 

him, 
And  chance  it  as  it  may. 

Old  Play. 


From  "  Old  Mortality:' 

Arouse  thee,  youth  !  —  it  is  no  common  call, — 
God's  Church  is  leaguered — haste  to  man  the 

wall ; 
Haste  where  the  Red-cross  banners  wave  on 

high, 
Signals  of  honored  death  or  victory. 

James  Duff. 

My  hounds  may  a'  rin  masterless, 
My  hawks  may  fly  frae  tree  to  tree, 

My  lord  may  grip  my  vassal  lands, 
For  there  again  maun  I  never  be ! 

Old  Ballad. 

Sound,  sound  the  clarion,  fill  the  fife  ! 

To  all  the  sensual  world  proclaim, 
One  crowded  hour  of  glorious  life 

Is  worth  an  age  without  a  name. 

Anonymous. 


Frotn  "  Rob  Roy." 

In  the  wide  pile,  by  others  heeded  not, 

Hers  was  one  sacred  solitary  spot, 

Whose  gloomy  aisles  and  bending  shelves  con- 
tain 

For  moral  hunger  food,  and  cures  for  moral 
pain. 

Anonymous. 

Dire  was  his  thought  who  first  in  poison  steeped 
The  weapon  formed  for  slaughter  —  direr  his, 
And  worthier  of  damnation,  who  instilled 
The  mortal  venom  in  the  social  cup, 
To  fill  the  veins  with  death  instead  of  life. 

Anonymous. 

Look  round  thee,  young  Astolpho  :  Here  's  the 

place 
Which  men  —  for   being   poor  —  are  sent  to 

starve  in  — 
Rude  remedy,  I  trow,  for  sore  disease. 
Within  these  walls,  stifled  by  damp  and  stench, 
Doth  Hope's  fair  torch  expire ;  and  at  the  snuff, 
Ere  yet  't  is  quite  extinct,  rude,  wild,  and  way- 
ward, 


The  desperate  revelries  of  wild  despair, 
Kindling  their  hell-born  cressets,  light  to  deeds 
That  the  poor   captive   would   have   died  ere 

practised, 
Till  bondage  sunk  his  soul  to  his  condition. 
The  Prison,  Act  i.  Scene  3. 

Far  as  the  eye  could  reach  no  tree  was  seen, 
Earth,  clad  in  russet,  scorned  the  lively  green ; 
No  birds,  except  as  birds  of  passage,  flew  ; 
No  bee  was  heard  to  hum,  no  dove  to  coo ; 
No  streams,  as  amber  smooth,  as  amber  clear, 
Were  seen  to  glide,  or  heard  to  warble  here. 
Prophecy  of  Famine. 

'  Woe  to  the  vanquished  ! "  was  stern  Brenno's 

word, 
When  sunk  proud   Rome  beneath  the  Gallic 

sword  — 
1  Woe  to  the  vanquished ! '  when  his  massive 

blade 
Bore  down  the  scale  against  her  ransom  weighed, 
And  on  the  field  of  foughten  battle  still, 
Who  knows  no  limit  save  the  victor's  will. 

The  Gaulliad. 

And  be  he  safe  restored  ere  evening  set, 
Or,  if  there  's  vengeance  in  an  injured  heart 
And  power  to  wreak  it  in  an  armed  hand, 
Your  land  shall  ache  for  't. 

Old  Play. 

Farewell  to  the  land  where  the  clouds  love  to 

rest, 
Like  the  shroud  of  the  dead,  on  the  mountain's 

cold  breast ; 
To  the  cataract's  roar  where  the  eagles  reply, 
And  the  lake  her  lone  bosom  expands  to  the 

sky. 


From  "  The  Heart  of  Midlothian" 

To  man,  in  this  his  trial  state, 

The  privilege  is  given, 
When  lost  by  tides  of  human  fate, 

To  anchor  fast  in  Heaven. 

Watts'  Hymns. 

Law,  take  thy  victim  !  —  May  she  find  the  mercy 
In  yon  mild  heaven  which  this  hard  world  de- 
nies her  ! 

And  Need  and  Misery,  Vice  and  Danger,  bind 
In  sad  alliance  each  degraded  mind. 

I  BESEECH  you  — 

These  tears  beseech  you,  and  these  chaste  hands 

woo  you, 
That  never  yet  were  heaved  but  to  things  holy  — 
Things  like  yourself—  You  are  a  God  above 

us; 
Be  as  a  God  then,  full  of  saving  mercy  ! 

The  Bloody  Brother. 

Happy  thou  art !  then  happy  be, 

Nor  envy  me  my  lot ; 
Thy  happy  state  I  envy  thee, 

And  peaceful  cot. 

Lady  C C /. 


548 


APPENDIX. 


From  "  The  Bride  of  Lammermoor." 

The  hearth  in  hall  was  black  and  dead, 
No  board  was  dight  in  bower  within, 
Nor  merry  bowl  nor  welcome  bed  ; 

'  Here 's  sorry  cheer/  quoth  the  Heir  of  Linne. 
Old  Ballad 
{Altered from  "  The  Heir  of  Linne  "). 

As,  to  the  Autumn  breeze's  bugle-sound, 
Various  and  vague  the  dry  leaves  dance  their 

round ; 
Or  from  the  garner-door,  on  aether  borne, 
The   chaff   flies   devious   from   the   winnowed 

corn ; 
So  vague,  so  devious,  at  the  breath  of  heaven, 
From  their  fixed  aim  are  mortal  counsels  driven. 

Anonymous. 

Here  is  a  father  now, 
Will  truck  his  daughter  for  a  foreign  venture, 
Make  her  the  stop-gap  to  some  cankered  feud, 
Or  fling  her  o'er,  like  Jonah,  to  the  fishes, 
To  appease  the  sea  at  highest. 

Anonymous. 

Sir,  stay  at  home  and  take  an  old  man's  counsel : 
Seek  not  to  bask  you  by  a  stranger's  hearth  ; 
Our  own  blue  smoke  is  warmer  than  their  fire. 
Domestic    food     is     wholesome,    though    't  is 

homely, 
And  foreign  dainties  poisonous,  though  tasteful. 
The  French  Courtezan. 

True-love,  an  thou  be  true, 

Thou  hast  ane  kittle  part  to  play, 

For  fortune,  fashion,  fancy,  and  thou 
Maun  strive  for  many  a  day. 

I  've  kend  by  mony  a  friend's  tale, 
Far  better  by  this  heart  of  mine, 

What  time  and  change  of  fancy  avail, 
A  true  love-knot  to  untwine. 

Hendersoun. 

Why,  now  I  have  Dame  Fortune  by  the  fore- 
lock, 

And  if  she  'scapes  my  grasp  the  fault  is  mine  ; 

He  that  hath  buffeted  with  stern  adversity, 

Best  knows  to  shape  his  course  to  favoring 
breezes.  a 

Old  Play. 


From  "  The  Legend  of  Montrose" 

DARK  on  their  iourney  loured  the  gloomy  day, 
Wild  were  the  hills  and  doubtful  grew  the  way; 
More  dark    more   gloomy,  and  more  doubtful 

snowed 
The  mansion  which  received  them  from  the  road. 
The  Travellers,  a  Romance. 

I s  this  thy  castle,  Baldwin  ?    Melancholy 
Displays  her  sable  banner  from  the  donjon 
Darkening  the  foam  of  the  whole  surge  beneath 
Were  I  a  habitant,  to  see  this  gloom 
Pollute  the  face  of  nature,  and  to  hear 


The   ceaseless   sound   of  wave    and   sea-bird's 

scream, 
I  'd  wish  me  in  the  hut  that  poorest  peasant 
Ere  framed  to  give  him  temporary  shelter. 

Browne. 

This  was  the  entry,  then,  these   stairs  —  but 

whither  after  ? 
Yet  he  that 's  sure  to  perish  on  the  land 
May  quit  the  nicety  of  card  and  compass, 
And  trust  the  open  sea  without  a  pilot. 

Tragedy  of  Brentiovalt. 


From  "  Zvanhoe." 

Away  !  our  journey  lies  through  dell  and  dingle, 
Where  the  blithe  fawn  trips  by  its  timid  mother, 
Where  the  broad  oak  with  intercepting  boughs 
Chequers    the    sun-beam    in    the   greensward 

alley  — 
Up  and  away !  —  for  lovely  paths  are  these 
To  tread,  when  the  glad  sun  is  on  his  throne ; 
Less   pleasant   and   less   safe   when   Cynthia's 

lamp 
With  doubtful  glimmer  lights  the  dreary  forest. 
Ettrick  Forest. 

When  autumn  nights  were  long  and  drear, 
And  forest  walks  were  dark  and  dim, 

How  sweetly  on  the  pilgrim's  ear 

Was  wont  to  steal  the  hermit's  hymn ! 

Devotion  borrows  Music's  tone, 
And  Music  took  Devotion's  wing, 

And,  like  the  bird  that  hails  the  sun, 
They  soar  to  heaven,  and  soaring  sing. 

The  Hermit  of  Saint  Clement's  Well. 

The  hottest  horse  will  oft  be  cool, 

The  dullest  will  show  fire ; 
The  friar  will  often  play  the  fool, 

The  fool  will  play  the  friar. 

Old  Song. 

This  wandering  race,  severed  from  other  men, 
Boast  yet  their  intercourse  with  human  arts ; 
The  seas,  the  woods,  the  deserts,  which  they 

haunt, 
Find  them  acquainted  with  their  secret  treasures; 
And  unregarded  herbs  and  flowers  and  blossoms 
Display  undreamed-of  powers   when  gathered 

by  them. 

The  Jew. 
Approach  the  chamber,  look  upon  his  bed. 
His  is  the  passing  of  no  peaceful  ghost, 
Which,  as  the  lark  arises  to  the  sky, 
Mid  morning's  sweetest  breeze  and  softest  dew, 
Is  winged  to  heaven  bv  good  men's  sighs  and 

tears ! 
Anselm  parts  otherwise. 

Old  Play. 
Trust  me,  each  state  must  have  its  policies : 
Kingdoms  have  edicts,  cities  have  their  charters: 
£ven  the  wild  outlaw  in  his  forest-walk 
Keeps  yet  some  touch  of  civil  discipline. 


MOTTOES  FROM   THE  NOVELS, 


549 


For  not  since  Adam  wore  his  verdant  apron 
Hath  man  with  man  in  social  union  dwelt,. 
But  laws  were  made  to  draw  that  union  closer. 

Old  Play. 

Arouse  the  tiger  of  Hyrcanian  deserts, 
Strive  with  the  half-starved  lion  for  his  prey ; 
Lesser  the  risk  than  rouse  the  slumbering  fire 
Of  wild  Fanaticism. 

Anonymoics. 

Say  not  my  art  is  fraud  —  all  live  by  seeming. 
The  beggar  begs  with  it,  and  the  gay  courtier 
Gains  land  and  title,  rank  and  rule,  by  seeming : 
The  clergy  scorn  it  not,  and  the  bold  soldier 
Will  eke  with  it  his  service.  —  All  admit  it, 
All  practise  it ;  and  he  who  is  content 
With  showing  what  he  is  shall  have  small  credit 
In  church   or  camp   or  state.  —  So  wags  the 
world. 

Old  Play. 

Stern  was  the  law  which  bade  its  votaries  leave 
At  human  woes  with  human  hearts  to  grieve  ; 
Stern  was  the  law  which  at  the  winning  wile 
Of  frank  and  harmless  mirth  forbade  to  smile ; 
But  sterner  still  when  high  the  iron-rod 
Of  tyrant  power  she   shook,  and   called   that 
power  of  God. 

The  Middle  Ages. 


From  "  The  Monastery." 

0  ay!  the  Monks,  the  Monks,  they  did  the 

mischief ! 
Theirs  all  the  grossness,  all  the  superstition 
Of  a  most  gross  and  superstitious  age.  — 
May   He  be   praised  that   sent   the    healthful 

tempest, 
And  scattered  all  these  pestilential  vapors  ; 
But  that  we  owed  them  all  to  yonder  Harlot 
Throned  on  the  seven  hills  with  her  cup  of  gold, 

1  will  as  soon  believe,  with  kind  Sir  Roger, 
That  old  Moll  White  took  wing  with  cat  and 

broomstick, 
And  raised  the  last  night's  thunder. 

Old  Play. 

In  yon  lone  vale  his  early  youth  was  bred. 
Not  solitary  then  —  the  bugle-horn 
Of  fell  Alecto  often  waked  its  windings, 
From  where  the  brook  joins  the  majestic  river, 
To  the  wild  northern  bog,  the  curlieu's  haunt, 
Where  oozes  forth  its  first  and  feeble  streamlet. 

Old  Play. 

A  priest,  ye  cry,  a  priest !  —  lame  shepherds 

they, 
How  shall  they  gather  in  the  straggling  flock? 
Dumb  dogs  which  bark  not  —  how  shall  they 

compel 
The  loitering  vagrants  to  the  Master's  fold  ? 
Fitter  to  bask  before  the  blazing  fire, 
And  snuff  the  mess  neat-handed  Phillis  dresses, 
Than  on  the  snow-wreath  battle  with  the  wolf. 
The  Reformation. 


Now  let  us  sit  in  conclave.     That  these  weeds 
Be  rooted  from  the  vineyard  of  the  Church, 
That  these  foul  tares  be  severed  from  the  wheat, 
We  are,  I  trust,  agreed.     Yet  how  to  do  this, 
Nor  hurt  the  wholesome  crop  and  tender  vine- 
plants, 
Craves  good  advisement. 

The  Reformation. 

Nay,  dally  not  with  time,  the  wise  man's  treasure, 
Though  fools  are  lavish  on 't  —  the  fatal  Fisher 
Hooks  souls  while  we  waste  moments.        • 

Old  Play. 

You  call  this  education,  do  you  not  ? 
Why,  't  is  the  forced  march  of  a  herd  of  bullocks 
Before  a  shouting  drover.     The  glad  van 
Move  on  at  ease,  and  pause  awhile  to  snatch 
A  passing  morsel  from  the  dewy  greensward, 
While  all  the  blows,  the  oaths,  the  indignation, 
Fall  on  the  croupe  of  the  ill-fated  laggard 
That  cripples  in  the  rear. 

Old  Play. 

There  's  something  in  that  ancient  superstition, 

Which,  erring  as  it  is,  our  fancy  loves.    , 

The    spring    that,    with    its    thousand    crystal 

bubbles, 
Bursts  from  the  bosom  of  some  desert  rock 
In  secret  solitude,  may  well  be  deemed 
The  haunt  of  something  purer,  more  refined, 
And  mightier  than  ourselves. 

Old  Play. 

Nay,  let  me  have  the  friends  who  eat  my  victuals 
As  various  as  my  dishes.  The  feast's  naught, 
Where  one  huge  plate  predominates.  —  John 

Plaintext, 
He  shall  be  mighty  beef,  our  English  staple  $ 
The  worthy  Alderman,  a  buttered  dumpling  ; 
Yon  pair  of  whiskered  Cornets,  ruffs  and  rees ; 
Their  friend  the  Dandy,  a  green  goose  in  sippets. 
And  so  the  board  is  spread  at  once  and  filled 
On  the  same  principle  —  Variety. 

New  Play. 

He  strikes  no  coin,  'tis  true,  but  coins  new 

phrases, 
And  vends  them  forth  as  knaves  vend  gilded 

counters, 
Which  wise   men  scorn  and  fools  accept  in 

payment. 

Old  Play. 

A  courtier  extraordinary,  who  by  diet 
Of  meats  and  drinks,  his  temperate  exercise, 
Choice  music,  frequent  bath,  his  horary  shifts 
Of  shirts  and  waistcoats,  means  to  immortalize 
Mortality  itself,  and  makes  the  essence 
Of  his  whole  happiness  the  trim  of  court. 

Magnetic  Lady. 

Now  choose  thee,  gallant,  betwixt  wealth  and 

honor ; 
There  lies  the  pelf,  in  sum  to  bear  thee  through 
The  dance  of  youth  and  the  turmoil  of  manhood, 
Yet  leave  enough  for  age's  chimney-corner  ; 
But  an  thou  grasp  to  it,  farewell  Ambition  ! 


55o 


APPENDIX. 


Farewell  each  hope  of  bettering  thy  condition, 
And  raising  thy  low  rank  above  the  churls 
That  till  the  earth  for  bread ! 

Old  Play. 

Indifferent,  but  indifferent  —  pshaw !  he  doth 

it  not 
Like  one  who  is  his  craft's  master  —  ne'ertheless 
I  have  seen  a  clown  confer  a  bloody  coxcomb 
On  one  who  was  a  master  of  defence. 

Old  Play. 

Yes,  life  hath  left  him  —  every  busy  thought, 
Each  fiery  passion,  every  strong  affection, 
The  sense  of  outward  ill  and  inward  sorrow, 
Are  fled  at  once  from  the  pale  trunk  before  me ; 
And  I  have  given  that  which  spoke  and  moved, 
Thought,  acted,  suffered,  as  a  living  man, 
To  be  a  ghastly  form  of  bloody  clay, 
Soon  the  foul  food  for  reptiles. 

Old  Play. 

'T  is  when  the  wound  is  stiffening  with  the  cold, 
The  warrior  first  feels  pain  —  't  is  when  the  heat 
And  fiery  fever  of  his  soul  is  past, 
The  sinner  feels  remorse. 

Old  Play. 

I  'll  walk  on  tiptoe ;  arm  my  eye  with  caution, 
My   heart  with    courage,    and   my   hand   with 

weapon, 
Like  him  who  ventures  on  a  lion's  den. 

Old  Play. 
Now,  by  Our  Lady,  Sheriff,  't  is  hard  reckoning 
That  I,  with  every  odds  of  birth  and  barony, 
Should  be  detained  here  for  the  casual  death 
Of  a  wild  forester,  whose  utmost  having 
Is  but  the  brazen  buckle  of  the  belt 
In  which  he  sticks  his  hedge-knife. 

Old  Play. 
You  call  it  an  ill  angel  —  it  may  be  so ; 
But  sure  I  am,  among  the  ranks  which  fell, 
Tis  the  first  fiend  e  er  counselled  man  to' rise 
And  win  the  bliss  the  sprite  himself  had  forfeited' 

Old  Play. 
At  school  I  knew  him  —  a  sharp-witted  youth 
Grave,  thoughtful,  and  reserved  amongst  his 

mates, 
Turning  the  hours  of  sport  and  food  to  labor 
Starving  his  body  to  inform  his  mind. 

Old  Play. 
Now  on  my  faith  this  gear  is  all  entangled, 
Like  to  the  yarn  clew  of  the  drowsy  knitter 
Dragged  by  the  frolic  kitten  through  the  cabin 
W  nile  the  good  dame  sits  nodding  o'er  the  fire  — 
Masters,   attend;   'twill   crave   some   skill    to 
clear  it. 

Old  Play. 
It  is  not  texts  will  do  it  — Church  artillery 
Are  silenced  soon  by  real  ordnance, 
And  canons  arc  but  vain  opposed  to  cannon 
Go,  com  your  crosier,  melt  your  church  plate 

down, 
Bid  the  starved  soldier  banquet  in  your  halls 
And<|i.;iff  your  long-saved  hogsheads.  —  Turn 

thun    out 


Thus  primed  with  your  good  cheer,  to  guard 

your  wall, 
And  they  will  venture  for 't. 

Old  Play. 


Prom  "  The  Abbot." 

In  the  wild  storm 
The  seaman  hews  his  mast  down,  and  the  mer- 
chant 
Heaves  to  the  billows  wares  he  once  deemed 

precious  : 
So  prince  and  peer,  mid  popular  contentions, 
Cast  off  their  favorites. 

Old  Play. 

Thou  hast  each  secret  of  the  household,  Francis. 
I  dare  be  sworn  thou  hast  been  in  the  buttery 
Steeping  thy  curious  humor  in  fat  ale, 
And  in  the  butler's  tattle  —  ay,  or  chatting 
With  the  glib  waiting-woman  o'er  her  comfits  — 
These  bear  the  key  to  each  domestic  mystery. 

Old  Play. 

The  sacred  tapers'  lights  are  gone, 
Gray  moss  has  clad  the  altar  stone, 
The  holy  image  is  o'erthrown, 

The  bell  has  ceased  to  toll. 
The  long  ribbed  aisles  are  burst  and  shrunk, 
The  holy  shrines  to  ruin  sunk, 
Departed  is  the  pious  monk, 

God's  blessing  on  his  soul ! 

Rediviva. 

Life  hath  its  May,  and  all  is  mirthful  then  : 
The  woods  are  vocal  and  the  flowers  all  odor ; 
Its  very  blast  has  mirth  in  't,  and  the  maidens, 
The  while  they  don  their  cloaks  to  skreen  their 

kirtles, 
Laugh  at  the  rain  that  wets  them. 

Old  Play. 
Nay,  hear  me,  brother  — I  am  elder,  wiser, 
And  holier  than  thou ;  and  age  and  wisdom 
And  holiness  have  peremptory  claims, 
And  will  be  listened  to. 

Old  Play. 
Not  the  wild  billow,  when  it  breaks  its  barrier  — 
Not  the  wild  wind,  escaping  from  its  cavern  — 
Not  the  wild  fiend,  that  mingles  both  together 
And  pours  their  rage  upon  the  ripening  harvest, 
Can   match   the  wild   freaks   of   this   mirthful 

meeting  — 
Comic,  yet  fearful  —  droll,  and  yet  destructive. 
The  Conspiracy. 

Youth  !  thou  wear'st  to  manhood  now ; 

Darker  lip  and  darker  brow, 

Statelier  step,  more  pensive  mien, 

In  thy  face  and  gait  are  "seen: 

Thou  must  now  brook  midnight  watches, 

I  ake  thy  food  and  sport  by  snatches ! 

For  the  gambol  and  the  jest 

Thou  wert  wont  to  love  the  best, 

Graver  follies  must  thou  follow, 

But  as  senseless,  false,  and  hollow. 

Life,  a  Poem. 


MOTTOES  FROM   THE  NOVELS. 


55 


It  is  and  is  not  —  'tis  the  thing  I  sought  for, 
Have  kneeled  for,  prayed  for,  risked  my  fame 

and  life  for, 
And  yet  it  is  not  —  no  more  than  the  shadow 
Upon  the  hard,  cold,  flat,  and  polished  mirror. 
Is  the  warm,  graceful,  rounded,  living  substance 
Which  it  presents  in  form  and  lineament. 

Old  Play. 

Give  me  a  morsel  on  the  greensward  rather, 
Coarse  as  you  will  the  cooking  —  let  the  fresh 

spring 
Bubble  beside  my  napkin  —  and  the  free  birds, 
Twittering  and   chirping,  hop  from  bough  to 

bough, 
To  claim  the  crumbs  I  leave  for  perquisites  — 
Your  prison-feasts  I  like  not. 

The  Woodman,  a  Drama. 

'Tis  a  weary  life  this  — 
Vaults  overhead,  and  grates  and  bars  around  me, 
And  my  sad  hours  spent  with  as  sad  companions, 
Whose  thoughts  are  brooding  o'er  their  own 

mischances, 
Far,  far  too  deeply  to  take  part  in  mine. 

The  Woodman. 

And  when  Love's  torch  hath  set  the  heart  in 
flame, 

Comes  Seignior  Reason,  with  his  saws  and  cau- 
tions, 

Giving  such  aid  as  the  old  gray-beard  Sexton, 

Who   from   the   church-vault   drags   his  crazy 
engine, 

To  ply  its  dribbling  ineffectual  streamlet 

Against  a  conflagration. 

Old  Play. 

Yes,  it  is  she  whose  eyes  looked  on  thy  child 

hood, 
And  watched  with  trembling  hope  thy  dawn  of 

youth, 
That  now,  with  these  same  eyeballs,  dimmed 

with  age, 
And  dimmer  yet  with  tears,  sees  thy  dishonor. 

Old  Play. 

In  some  breasts  passion  lies  concealed  and  silent, 
Like  war's  swart  powder  in  a  castle  vault, 
Until  occasion,  like  the  linstock,  lights  it ; 
Then  comes  at  once  the  lightning  and  the  thun- 
der, 
And  distant  echoes  tell  that  all  is  rent  asunder. 

Old  Play. 

Death  distant  ? — No,  alas  !  he 's  ever  with  us, 
And  shakes  the  dart  at  us  in  all  our  actings  : 
He  lurks  within  our  cup  while  we  're  in  health ; 
Sits  by  our  sick-bed,  mocks  our  medicines  ; 
We  cannot  walk,  or  sit,  or  ride,  or  travel, 
But  Death  is  by  to  seize  us  when  he  lists. 

The  Spanish  Father. 

Ay,  Pedro,  —  come  you  here  with  mask  and 

lantern, 
Ladder  of  ropes,  and  other  moonshine  tools  — 
Why,  youngster,   thou    mayst    cheat   the  old 

Duenna, 
Flatter  the  waiting-woman,  bribe  the  valet ; 
But  know,  that  I  her  father  play  the  Gryphon, 


Tameless  and  sleepless,  proof  to  fraud  or  bribe. 
And  guard  the  hidden  treasure  of  her  beauty. 
The  Spanish  Lather. 

It  is  a  time  of  danger,  not  of  revel, 
When  churchmen  turn  to  masquers. 

The  Spanish  Father. 

Ay.  sir  —  our  ancient  crown,  in  these  wild  times, 
Oft  stood  upon  a  cast  —  the  gamester's  ducat, 
So  often  staked  and  lost  and  then  regained, 
Scarce  knew  so  many  hazards. 

The  Spanish  Father. 


From  "  Kenilworth." 

Not  serve  two  masters  ? — Here 's  a  youth  will 

try  it  — 
Would  fain  serve  God,  yet  give  the  devil  his  due  ; 
Says  grace  before  he  doth  a  deed  of  villany, 
And  returns  his  thanks  devoutly  when  't  is  acted. 

Old  Play. 

He  was  a  man 
Versed  in  the  world  as  pilot  in  his  compass. 
The  needle  pointed  ever  to  that  interest 
Which  was  his  loadstar,  and  he  spread  his  sails 
With  vantage  to  the  gale  of  others'  passion. 
The  Deceiver,  a  Tragedy. 

This  is  he 
Who  rides  on  the  court-gale  ;  controls  its  tides  ; 
Knows  all  their  secret  shoals  and  fatal  eddies  ; 
Whose  frown  abases  and  whose  smile  exalts. 
He  shines  like  any  rainbow  —  and,  perchance, 
His  colors  are  as  transient. 

Old  Play. 

This  is  rare  news  thou  tell'st  me,  my  good 

fellow ; 
There  are  two  bulls  fierce  battling  on  the  green 
For  one  fair  heifer  —  if  the  one  goes  down, 
The  dale  will  be  more  peaceful,  and  the  herd, 
Which  have  small  interest  in  their  brulziement, 
May  pasture  there  in  peace. 

Old  Play. 

Well,  then,  our  course  is  chosen  ;  spread  the 

sail, — 
Heave  oft  the  lead  and  mark  the  soundings  well ; 
Look  to  the  helm,  good  master  ;  many  a  shoal 
Marks  this  stern  coast,  and  rocks  where  sits 

the  siren 
Who,  like  ambition,  lures  men  to  their  ruin. 
The  Shipwreck. 

Now  God  be  good  to  me  in  this  wild  pilgrimage  ! 
All  hope  in  human  aid  I  cast  behind  me. 
O,  who  would  be  a  woman  ?  who  that  fool, 
A  weeping,  pining,  faithful,  loving  woman  ? 
She  hath  hard  measure  still  where  she  hopes 

kindest, 
And  all  her  bounties  only  make  ingrates. 

Love's  Pilgrimage. 

Hark  !  the  bells  summon  and  the  bugle  calls, 
But  she  the  fairest  answers  not ;  the  tide 
Of  nobles  and  of  ladies  throngs  the  halls, 
But  she  the  loveliest  must  in  secret  hide. 


552 


APPENDIX. 


What  eyes  were  thine,  proud  prince,  which  in 

the  gleam 
Of  yon  gay  meteors  lost  that  better  sense 
That  o'er  the  glow-worm  doth  the  star  esteem, 
\nd  merit's  modest  blush  o'er  courtly  insolence  ? 
The  Glass  Slipper. 

What,  man,  ne'er  lack  a  draught  when  the  full 

can 
Stands  at  thine  elbow  and  craves  emptying  I  — 
Nay,  fear  not  me,  for  I  have  no  delight 
To  watch  men's  vices,  since  I  have  myself 
Of  virtue  naught  to  boast  of.  — 'I  'm  a  striker, 
Would  have  the  world  strike  with  me,  pell- 
mell,  all. 

Pandcemonium . 

Now  fare  thee  well,  my  master  !  if  true  service 
Be  guerdoned  with  hard  looks,  e'en  cut  the 

tow-line, 
And  let  our  barks  across  the  pathless  flood 
Hold  different  courses. 

Shipwreck. 

Now  bid  the   steeple   rock  —  she  comes,  she 

comes ! 
Speak  for  us,  bells  !  speak  for  us,  shrill-tongued 

tuckets  ! 
Stand  to  the  linstock,  gunner  ;  let  thy  cannon 
Play  such  a  peal  as  if  a  Paynim  foe 
Came  stretched  in  turbaned  ranks  to  storm  the 

ramparts. 
We  will  have  pageants  too  ;  but  that  craves  wit, 
And  I  'm  a  rough-hewn  soldier. 

The  Virgin-Queen,  a  Tragi- Comedy. 

The  wisest  sovereigns  err  like  private  men, 
And  royal  hand  has  sometimes  laid  the  sword 
Of  chivalry  upon  a  worthless  shoulder, 
Which  better  had  been  branded  by  the  hangman. 
What  then  ?     Kings  do  their  best,  —  and  they 

and  we 
Must  answer  for  the  intent,  and  not  the  event. 

Old  Play. 

Here  stands  the  victim  —  there  the  proud  be- 
trayer, 
E'en  as  the  hind  pulled  down  by  strangling  dogs 
Lies  at  the  hunter's  feet,  who  courteous  proffers 
To  some  high  dame,  the  Dian  of  the  chase, 
To  whom  he  looks  for  guerdon,  his  sharp  blade 
To  gash  the  sobbing  throat. 

The  Woodman. 

HIGH  o'er  the  eastern  steep  the  sun  is  beaming, 
And  darkness  flies  with  her  deceitful  shadows ; 
So  truth  prevails  o'er  falsehood. 

Old  Play. 


From  "  The  Pirate? 

'T  is  not  alone  the  scene  —  the  man,  Anselmo. 
The  man  finds  sympathies  in  these  wild  wastes 
And  roughly  tumbling  seas,  which  fairer  views 
And  smoother  waves  deny  him. 

Ancient  Drama. 


She  does  no  work  by  halves,  yon  raving  ocean  ; 
Engulfing  those  she  strangles,  her  wild  womb 
Affords  the  mariners  whom  she  hath  dealt  on 
Their  death  at  once  and  sepulchre. 

Old  Play. 

This  is  a  gentle  trader  and  a  prudent  — 
He 's  no  Autolycus,  to  blear  your  eye 
With  quips  of  worldly  gauds  and  gamesomeness, 
But  seasons  all  his  glittering  merchandise 
With  wholesome  doctrine  suited  to  the  use, 
As  men  sauce  goose  with  sage  and  rosemary. 

Old  Play. 

All  your  ancient  customs 
And  long-descended  usages  I  '11  change. 
Ye  shall  not  eat,  nor  drink,  nor  speak,  nor  move, 
Think,  look,  or  walk,  as  ye  were  wont  to  do ; 
Even  your  marriage-beds  shall  know  mutation  ; 
The  bride  shall  have  the  stock,  the  groom  the 

wall ; 
For  all  old  practice  will  I  turn  and  change, 
And  call  it  reformation  —  marry,  will  I  ! 

'  Tis  Even  that  we  We  at  Odds. 

We  '11  keep  our  customs  —  what  is  law  itself 
But  old  established  custom  ?     What  religion  — 
I  mean,  with  one  half  of  the  men  that  use  it  — 
Save  the  good  use  and  wont  that  carries  them 
To  worship  how  and  where  their  fathers  wor- 
shipped ? 
All  things  resolve  in  custom  —  we  '11  keep  ours 

Old  Play. 

I  do  love  these  ancient  ruins  ! 
We  never  tread  upon  them  but  we  set 
Our  foot  upon  some  reverend  history, 
And  questionless,  here  in  this  open  court  — 
Which  now  lies  naked  to  the  injuries 
Of  stormy  weather  —  some  men  lie  interred, 
Loved  the  Church  so  well  and  gave  so  largely 

to  it, 
They   thought   it  should  have  canopied  their 

bones 
Till  doomsday ;  — but  all  things  have  their  end — 
Churches  and  cities,  which  have  diseases  like 

to  men, 
Must  have  like  death  which  we  have. 

Duchess  of  Malfy. 

See  yonder  woman,  whom  our  swains  revere 
And  dread  in  secret,  while  they  take  her  counsel 
When  sweetheart  shall  be  kind,  or  when  cross 

dame  shall  die  ; 
Where  lurks   the   thief   who   stole   the   silver 

tankard, 
And  how  the  pestilent  murrain  may  be  cured ;  — 
This  sage  adviser  's  mad,  stark  mad,  my  friend ; 
Yet  in  her  madness  hath  the  art  and  cunning 
To  wring  fools'  secrets  from  their  inmost  bosoms, 
And  pay  inquirers  with  the  coin  they  gave  her. 

Old  Play. 

What  ho,  my  jovial  mates  !  come  on !  we  '11 
frolic  it 

Like  fairies  frisking  in  the  merry  moonshine, 

Seen  by  the  curtal  friar,  who,  from  some  chris- 
tening 

Or  some  blithe  bridal,  hies  belated  cell-ward  — 


MOTTOES  FROM   THE  NOVELS. 


553 


He  starts,  and  changes  his  bold  bottle  swagger 
To  churchman's  pace  professional,  —  and,  ran- 
sacking 
His  treacherous  memory  for  some  holy  hymn, 
Finds  but  the  roundel  of  the  midnight  catch. 

Old  Play. 

I  strive  like  to  the  vessel  in  the  tide-way, 
Which,  lacking  favoring  breeze,  hath  not  the 

power 
To  stem  the  powerful  current.  —  Even  so, 
Resolving  daily  to  forsake  my  vices, 
Habit,  strong  circumstance,  renewed  temptation, 
Sweep  me  to  sea  again.  —  O  heavenly  breath, 
Fill  thou  my  sails,  and  aid  the  feeble  vessel, 
Which  ne'er  can  reach  the  blessed  port  without 

thee  ! 

'T  is  Odds  when  Evens  meet. 

Parental  love,  my  friend,   has   power   o'er 

wisdom, 
And  is  the  charm,  which,  like  the  falconer's  lure, 
Can  bring   from   heaven   the   highest   soaring 

spirits.  — 
So,  when  famed  Prosper  doffed  his  magic  robe 
It  was  Miranda  plucked  it  from  his  shoulders. 

Old  Play. 

Hark  to  the  insult  loud,  the  bitter  sneer, 
The  fierce  threat  answering  to  the  brutal  jeer ; 
Oaths  fly  like  pistol-shots,  and  vengeful  words 
Clash  with  each  other  like  conflicting  swords.  — 
The  robber's  quarrel  by  such  sounds  is  shown, 
And  true  men  have  some  chance  to  gain  their 
own. 

Captivity,  a  Poem. 

Over  the  mountains  and  under  the  waves, 
Over  the  fountains  and  under  the  graves, 
Over  floods  that  are  deepest, 

Which  Neptune  obey, 
Over  rocks  that  are  steepest, 
Love  will  find  out  the  way. 

Old  Song. 


From  "  The  Fortunes  of  Nigel." 

Now  Scot  and  English  are  agreed, 

And  Saunders  hastes  to  cross  the  Tweed, 

Where,  such  the  splendors  that  attend  him, 

His  very  mother  scarce  had  kenned  him. 

His  metamorphosis  behold 

From  Glasgow  frieze  to  cloth  of  gold ; 

His  back-sword  with  the  iron-hilt, 

To  rapier  fairly  hatched  and  gilt ; 

Was  ever  seen  a  gallant  braver  ! 

His  very  bonnet 's  grown  a  beaver. 

The  Reformation. 

This,  sir,  is  one  among  the  Seigniory, 
Has  wealth  at  will,  and  will  to  use  his  wealth, 
And  wit  to  increase  it.     Marry,  his  worst  folly 
Lies  in  a  thriftless  sort  of  charity, 
That  goes  a-gadding  sometimes  after  objects 
Which  wise  men  will  not  see  when  thrust  upon 
them. 

The  Old  Couple. 


Ay,  sir,  the  clouted  shoe  hath  ofttimes  craft  in 't, 
As  says  the  rustic  proverb ;  and  your  citizen, 
In  's  grogram  suit,  gold  chain,  and  well-blacked 

shoes, 
Bears  under  his  flat  cap  ofttimes  a  brain 
Wiser  than  burns  beneath  the  cap  and  feather, 
Or     seethes     within    the    statesman's    velvet 

nightcap. 

Read  me  my  Riddle. 

Wherefore  come  ye  not  to  court  ? 
Certain  't  is  the  rarest  sport ; 
There  are  silks  and  jewels  glistening, 
Prattling  fools  and  wise  men  listening, 
Bullies  among  brave  men  justling, 
Beggars  amongst  nobles  bustling  ; 
Low-breathed  talkers,  minion  lispers, 
Cutting  honest  throats  by  whispers ; 
Wherefore  come  ye  not  to  court  ? 
Skelton  swears  't  is  glorious  sport. 

Skelton  Skeltonizeth. 

O,  I  do  know  him  —  't  is  the  mouldy  lemon 
Which  our  court  wits  will  wet  their  lips  withal. 
When  they  would  sauce  their  honied  conversa- 
tion 
With  somewhat  sharper  flavor.  —  Marry,  sir, 
That  virtue  's  wellnigh  left  him  —  all  the  juice 
That  was  so  sharp  and  poignant  is  squeezed  out ; 
While  the  poor  rind,  although  as  sour  as  ever, 
Must  season  soon  the  draff  we  give  our  grunters, 
For  two-legged  things  are  weary  on  't. 

The  Chamberlain,  a  Comedy. 

Things  needful  we  have  thought  on ;  but  the 
thing 

Of  all  most  needful  —  that  which   Scripture 
terms, 

As  if  alone  it  merited  regard, 

The  one  thing  needful  —  that 's  yet  unconsid- 
ered. 

The  Chamberlain. 

Ah  !  mark  the  matron  well  —  and  laugh  not, 

Harry, 
At  her  old  steeple-hat  and  velvet  guard  — 
I  've  called  her  like  the  ear  of  Dionysius  ; 
I  mean   that   ear-formed  vault,   built  o'er  the 

dungeon 
To  catch  the  groans  and  discontented  murmurs 
Of  his  poor  bondsmen.  —  Even  so  doth  Martha 
Drink  up  for  her  own  purpose  all  that  passes, 
Or  is  supposed  to  pass,  in  this  wide  city  — 
She  can  retail  it  too,  if  that  her  profit 
Shall  call  on  her  to  do  so ;  and  retail  it 
For  your  advantage,  so  that  you  can  make 
Your  profit  jump  with  hers. 

The  Conspiracy. 

Bid  not  thy  fortune  troll  upon  the  wheels 
Of  yonder  dancing  cups  of  mottled  bone ; 
And  drown  it  not,  like  Egypt's  royal  harlot, 
Dissolving  her  rich  pearl  in  the  brimmed  wine- 
Cup. 
These  are  the  arts,  Lothario,  which  shrink  acres 
Into   brief   yards  —  bring   sterling    pounds   to 

farthings, 
Credit  to  infamy ;  and  the  poor  gull, 


554 


APPENDIX. 


Who  might  have  lived  an  honored,  easy  life, 
To  ruin  and  an  unregarded  grave. 

The  Changes. 

This  is  the  very  barn-yard 
Where  muster  daily  the  prime  cocks  o'  the  game, 
Ruffle  their  pinions,  crow  till  they  are  hoarse, 
And   spar    about    a    barleycorn.      Here,   too, 

chickens, 
The  callow  unfledged  brood  of  forward  folly, 
Learn  first  to  rear  the  crest,  and  aim  the  spur, 
And  tune  their  note  like  full-plumed  Chanticleer. 
The  Bear  Garden. 

Let  the  proud  salmon  gorge  the  feathered  hook, 
Then  strike,  and  then  you  have  him.  —  He  will 

wince  ; 
Spin  out  your  line  that  it  shall  whistle  from  you 
Some  twenty  yards  or  so,  yet  you  shall  have 

him  — 
Marry  !  you  must  have  patience  —  the  stout  rock 
Which  is  his  trust  hath  edges  something  sharp  ; 
And  the  deep  pool  hath  ooze  and  sludge  enough 
To  mar  your  fishing  —  'less  you  are  more  careful. 
Albion,  or  the  Double  Kings. 

Give  way  —  give  way  —  I  must  and  will  have 

justice, 
And  tell  me  not  of  privilege  and  place ; 
Where  I  am  injured,  there  I'll  sue  redress. 
Look  to  it,  every  one  who  bars  my  access  ; 
I  have  a  heart  to  feel  the  injury, 
A  hand  to  right  myself,  and,  by  my  honor, 
That  hand  shall   grasp  what  gray-beard  Law 

denies  me. 

The  Chamberlain. 

Come  hither,  young  one  —  Mark  me  !  Thou  art 

now 
'Mongst  men  o'  the  sword,  that  live  by  reputation 
More  than  by  constant  income  —  Single-suited 
They  are,  I  grant  you ;  yet  each  single  suit 
Maintains,  on   the   rough   guess,   a    thousand 

followers  — 
And  they  be  men  who,  hazarding  their  all, 
Needful  apparel,  necessary  income, 
And  human  body,  and  immortal  soul, 
Do  in  the  very  deed  but  hazard  nothing  — 
So  strictly  is  that  all  bound  in  reversion ; 
Clothes  to  the  broker,  income  to  the  usurer,  — 
And  body  to  disease,  and  soul  to  the  foul  fiend  ; 
Who  laughs  to  see  Soldadoes  and  fooladoes 
Play  better  than  himself  his  game  on  earth. 
The  Mohocks. 

Mother.     What !  dazzled  by  a  flash  of  Cupid's 
mirror, 
With  which  the  boy,  as  mortal  urchins  wont, 
Klings  back  the  sunbeam  in  the  eye  of  passen- 
gers- 
Then  laughs  to  see  them  stumble  ! 

'hUr.  Mother  1  no  — 

It  was  a  lightning-flash  which  dazzled  me, 
And  never  shall  these  eyes  see  true  again. 

Beef  and  Pudding,  <m  Old  English  Comedy. 

I'.v  t h is  good  light,  a  wench  of  matchless  mettle  ! 
Thil  were  a  leagucr-lass  to  love  a  soldier, 
To  bind  hia  wounds,  and  kiss  his  bloody  brow, 


And  sing  a  roundel  as  she  helped  to  arm  him, 
Though  the  rough  foeman's  drums  were  beat 
so  nigh 
They  seemed  to  bear  the  burden. 

Old  Play. 

Credit  me,  friend,  it  hath  been  ever  thus 

Since  the  ark  rested  on  Mount  Ararat. 

False  man  hath  sworn,  and  woman  hath  be- 
lieved— 

Repented  and  reproached,  and  then  believed 
once  more. 

The  New  World. 

Rove  not  from  pole  to  pole  —  the  man  lives 

here 
Whose  razor  's  only  equalled  by  his  beer ; 
And  where,  in  either  sense,  the  cockney-put 
May,  if  he  pleases,  get  confounded  cut. 

On  the  Sign  of  an  Alehouse  kept  by  a  Barber. 

Chance  will  not  do  the  work  —  Chance  sends 

the  breeze ; 
But  if  the  pilot  slumber  at  the  helm, 
The  very  wind  that  wafts  us  towards  the  port 
May  dash  us  on  the  shelves.  —  The  steersman's 

part  is  vigilance, 
Blow  it  or  rough  or  smooth. 

Old  Play. 

This  is  the  time  —  Heaven's  maiden-sentinel 
Hath    quitted    her    high    watch  —  the    lesser 

spangles 
Are  paling  one  by  one  ;  give  me  the  ladder 
And  the  short  lever  —  bid  Anthony 
Keep  with  his  carabine  the  wicket-gate  ; 
And  do  thou  bare  thy  knife  and  follow  me, 
For  we  will  in  and  do  it  —  darkness  like  this 
Is  dawning  of  our  fortunes. 

Old  Play. 

Death  finds  us  mid  our  playthings  —  snatches 

us, 
As  a  cross  nurse  might  do  a  wayward  child, 
From  all  our  toys  and  baubles.     His  rough  call 
Unlooses  all  our  favorite  ties  on  earth  ; 
And  well  if  they  are  such  as  may  be  answered 
In  yonder  world,  where  all  is  judged  of  truly. 

Old  Play. 

Give  us  good  voyage,  gentle  stream  —  we  stun 

not 
Thy  sober  ear  with  sounds  of  revelry, 
Wake  not  the  slumbering  echoes  of  thy  banks 
With  voice  of  flute  and  horn  —  we  do  but  seek 
On  the  broad  pathway  of  thy  swelling  bosom 
To  glide  in  silent  safety. 

The  Double  Bridal. 

This  way  lie  safety  and  a  sure  retreat ; 
Yonder  lie  danger,  shame,  and  punishment. 
Most  welcome  danger  then  —  nay,  let  me  say, 
Though  spoke  with  swelling  heart  —  welcome 

e  en  shame ; 
And  welcome  punishment  —  for,  call  me  guilty, 
I  do  but  pay  the  tax  that 's  due  to  justice ; 
And  call  me  guiltless,  then  that  punishment 
Is  shame  to  those  alone  who  do  inflict  it. 

The  Tribunal. 


MOTTOES  FROM   THE   NOVELS. 


555 


How  fares  the  man  on  whom  good  men  would 

look 
With  eyes  where  scorn  and  censure  combated, 
But  that  kind  Christian  love  hath  taught  the 

lesson  — 
That  they  who  merit  most  contempt  and  hate 
Do  most  deserve  our  pity  — 

Old  Play. 

Marry,  come  up,  sir,  with  your  gentle  blood  ! 
Here  's  a  red  stream  beneath  this  coarse  blue 

doublet 
That  warms  the  heart  as  kindly  as  if  drawn 
From  the  far  source  of  old  Assyrian  kings, 
Who  first  made  mankind  subject  to  their  sway. 

Old  Play. 

We  are  not  worse  at  once  —  the  course  of  evil 
Begins  so  slowly  and  from  such  slight  source, 
An  infant's  hand  might  stem  its  breach  with 

clay; 
But  let  the  stream  get  deeper,  and  philosophy  — 
Ay,  and  religion  too  —  shall  strive  in  vain 
To  turn  the  headlong  torrent. 

Old  Play. 


From  "  Peveril  of  the  Peak." 

Why  then,  we  will  have  bellowing  of  beeves, 
Broaching  of  barrels,  brandishing  of  spigots  ; 
Blood  shall  flow  freely,  but  it  shall  be  gore 
Of  herds  and  flocks  and  venison  and  poultry, 
Joined  to  the  brave    heart's-blood    of  John-a- 
Barleycorn ! 

Old  Play. 

No,  sir,  I  will  not  pledge  —  I  'm  one  of  those 
Who  think  good  wine  needs  neither  bush  nor 

preface 
To  make  it  welcome.     If  you  doubt  my  word, 
Fill  the  quart-cup,  and  see  if  I  will  choke  on  't. 

Old  Play. 

You   shall   have    no    worse    prison   than   my 

chamber, 

Nor  jailer  than  mvself.  ™     „  ..  . 

}  i  The  Captain. 

Ascasto.  Can  she  not  speak  ? 

Oswald.  If  speech  be  only  in  accented  sounds, 
Framed  by  the  tongue  and  lips,  the  maiden  's 

dumb; 
But  if  by  quick  and  apprehensive  look, 
By  motion,  sign,  and  glance,  to  give  each  mean- 
ing, 
Express  as  clothed   in    language,    be    termed 

speech, 
She  hath  that  wondrous  faculty ;  for  her  eyes, 
Like  the  bright  stars  of  heaven,  can  hold  dis- 
course, 
Though  it  be  mute  and  soundless. 

Old  Play. 

This  is  a  love  meeting  ?  See  the  maiden  mourns, 
And  the  sad  suitor  bends  his  looks  on  earth. 
There  's  more  hath  passed  between  them  than 

belongs 
To  Love's  sweet  sorrows.  Old  Play. 


Now,  hoist  the  anchor,  mates  —  and  let  the  sails 
Give  their  broad  bosom  to  the  buxom  wind, 
Like  lass  that  woos  a  lover. 

Anonymous. 

He  was  a  fellow  in  a  peasant's  garb  ; 
Yet  one  could  censure  you  a  woodcock's  carv- 
ing, 
Like  any  courtier  at  the  ordinary. 

The  Ordinary. 

We  meet,  as  men  see  phantoms  in  a  dream, 
Which  glide  and  sigh  and  sign  and  move  their 

lips, 
But  make  no  sound ;  or,  if  they  utter  voice, 
'T  is  but  a  low  and  undistinguished  moaning, 
Which  has  nor  word  nor  sense  of  uttered  sound. 
The  Chieftain. 

The  course  of  human  life  is  changeful  still 

As  is  the  fickle  wind  and  wandering  rill ; 

Or,  like  the  light  dance  which  the  wild-breeze 

weaves 
Amidst  the  faded  race  of  fallen  leaves ; 
Which  now  its  breath  bears  down,  now  tosses 

high, 
Beats  to  the  earth,  or  wafts  to  middle  sky. 
Such,  and  so  varied,  the  precarious  play 
Of  fate  with  man,  frail  tenant  of  a  day ! 

Anonymous. 

Necessity  —  thou  best  of  peacemakers, 

As  well  as  surest  prompter  of  invention  — 

Help  us  to  composition  !  , 

r  r  Anonymous. 

This  is  some  creature  of  the  elements 

Most  like  your  sea-gull.      He  can  wheel  and 

whistle 
His   screaming  song,  e'en  when  the  storm  is 

loudest  — 
Take  for  his  sheeted  couch  the  restless  foam 
Of  the  wild  wave-crest  —  slumber  in  the  calm, 
And  dally  with  the  storm.     Yet  'tis  a  gull, 
An  arrant  gull,  with  all  this.       ^  chieftain. 

I  fear  the  devil  worst  when  gown  and  cassock, 
Or  in  the  lack  of  them,  old  Calvin's  cloak, 
Conceals  his  cloven  hoof. 

Anonymous. 

'T  is  the  black  ban-dog  of  our  jail  —  pray  look 

on  him, 
But  at  a  wary  distance  —  rouse  him  not  — 
He  bays  not  till  he  worries. 

The  Black  Dog  of  Newgate. 

1  Speak  not  of  niceness,  when  there  's  chance  of 

wreck,' 
The  captain  said,  as  ladies  writhed  their  neck 
To  see  the  dying  dolphin  flap  the  deck : 
'  If  we  go  down,  on  us  these  gentry  sup  ; 
We  dine  upon  them,  if  we  haul  them  up. 
Wise  men  applaud  us  when  we  eat  the  eaters, 
As  the  devil  laughs  when  keen  folks  cheat  the 

cheaters.'  The  Sea  Voyage. 

Contentions  fierce, 
Ardent,  and  dire,  spring  from  no  petty  cause. 

Albion. 


556 


APPENDIX. 


He  came  amongst  them  like  a  new-raised  spirit, 
To  speak  of  dreadful  judgments  that  impend, 
And  of  the  wrath  to  come. 

The  Reformer. 

And  some  for  safety  took  the  dreadful  leap ; 
Some  for  the  voice  of  Heaven  seemed  calling 

on  them ; 
Some  for  advancement,  or  for  lucre's  sake  — 
I  leaped  in  frolic. 

The  Dream. 

High  feasting  was  there  there  —  the  gilded 

roofs 
Rung  to  the  wassail-health — the  dancer's  step 
Sprung    to    the    chord   responsive  —  the   gay 

gamester 
To  fate's  disposal  flung  his  heap  of  gold, 
And  laughed  alike  when  it  increased  or  lessened : 
Such  virtue  hath  court-air  to  teach  us  patience 
Which  schoolmen  preach  in  vain. 

Why  come  ye  not  to  Court? 

Here  stand  I  tight  and  trim, 
Quick  of  eye,  though  little  of  limb  ; 
He  who  denieth  the  word  I  have  spoken, 
Betwixt  him  and  me  shall  lances  be  broken. 
Lay  of  the  Little  fohn  de  Saintre. 


From  "  Quentin  Durward." 

Painters  show  Cupid  blind  —  hath  Hymen 

eyes  ? 
Or  is  his  sight  warped  by  those  spectacles 
Which   parents,  guardians,  and  advisers  lend 

him 
That  he  may  look  through  them  on  lands  and 

mansions, 
On  jewels,  gold,  and  all  such  rich  donations, 
And  see  their  value  ten  times  magnified  ?  — 
Methinks  't  will  brook  a  question. 

The  Miseries  of  Enforced  Marriage. 

This  is  a  lecturer  so  skilled  in  policy 
That  —  no  disparagement  to  Satan's  cunning  — 
I  [e  well  might  read  a  lesson  to  the  devil, 
And  teach  the  old  seducer  new  temptations. 

Old  Play. 

I  see  thee  yet,  fair  France  —  thou  favored  land 
Of  art  and  nature  —  thou  art  still  before  me ; 
Thy  sons,  to  whom  their  labor  is  a  sport, 
So  well  thy  grateful  soil  returns  its  tribute  ; 
Thy  sun-burnt  daughters,  with  their  laughing 

eyes 
And  glossy  raven-locks.     But,  favored  France, 
Thou  hast  had  many  a  tale  of  woe  to  tell, 
In  ancient  times  as  now. 

Anonymous. 

II r.  mu   i  Min  of  Egypt,  as  he  told  me, 

And  one  descended  from  those  dread  magicians 

Who  waged  rash   war,  when   Israel  dwelt  in 

ben, 
With  Israel  and  her  Prophet  —  matching  rod 
With  his  the  son  of  I>evi's  —  and  encountering 
Jehovah's  miracles  with  incantations, 


Till  upon  Egypt  came  the  avenging  Angel, 
And  those  proud  sages  wept  for  their  first-born, 
As  wept  the  unlettered  peasant. 

Anonymous. 

Rescue  or  none,  Sir  Knight,  I  am  your  captive  ; 
Deal  with  me  what  your  nobleness  suggests  — 
Thinking  the  chance  of  war  may  one  day  place 

you 
Where  I  must  now  be  reckoned  —  i'  the  roll 
Of  melancholy  prisoners. 

Anonymous. 


No  human  quality  is  so  well  wove 
In  warp  and  woof  but  there  's  some  flaw  in  it ; 
I  've  known  a  brave  man  fly  a  shepherd's  cur, 
A  wise  man  so  demean  him  drivelling  idiocy 
Had  wellnigh  been  ashamed  on  't.     For  your 

crafty, 
Your  worldly-wise  man,  he,  above* the  rest, 
Weaves  his  own  snares  so  fine  he  's  often  caught 

in  them. 

Old  Play. 

When  Princes  meet,  astrologers  may  mark  it 
An  ominous  conjunction,  full  of  boding, 
Like  that  of  Mars  with  Saturn. 

Old  Play. 


- 


Thy  time  is  not  yet  out — the  devil  thou  serv 

Has  not  as  yet  deserted  thee.     He  aids 

The  friends  who  drudge  for  him,  as  the  blind 

man 
Was  aided  by  the  guide,  who  lent  his  shoulder 
O'er  rough  and  smooth,  until  he  reached  the 

brink 
Of  the  fell  precipice  —  then  hurled  him  down- 
er*1- f\TJ    V7 

Old  Play. 

Our  counsels  waver  like  the  unsteady  bark, 
That  reels  amid  the  strife  of  meeting  currents. 

Old  Play. 

Hold  fast  thy  truth,  young  soldier.  —  Gentle 

maiden, 
Keep  you  your  promise  plight  —  leave  age  its 

subtleties, 
And  gray-haired  policy  its  maze  of  falsehood ; 
But  be  you  candid  as  the  morning  sky, 
Ere  the  high  sun  sucks  vapors  up  to  stain  it. 

The  Trial. 


From  "  Saint  Ponan's   Well." 

Quis  novus  hie  hospes  ? 

Dido  apud  Virgilium. 

Ch'm-Maid  !  — The  Genman  in  the  front  parlor  ! 
Boots's  free  Translation  of  the  ALneid. 

There  must  be  government  in  all  society  — 
Bees  have  their  Queen,  and  stag  herds  have 

their  leader ; 
Rome  had  her  Consuls,  Athens  had  her  Ar- 

chons, 
And  we,  sir,  have  our  Managing  Committee. 
The  Album  of  Saint  Ponans. 


MOTTOES  FROM   THE  NOVELS. 


557 


Come,  let  me  have  thy  counsel,  for  I  need  it ; 
Thou  art  of  those,  who,  better  help  their  friends 
With  sage  advice,  than  usurers  with  gold, 
Or  brawlers  with  their  swords  —  I  '11  trust  to 

thee, 
For  I  ask  only  from  thee  words,  not  deeds. 
The  Devil  hath  met  his  Match. 

Nearest  of  blood  should  still  be  next  in  love  ; 
And  when  I  see  these  happy  children  playing, 
While    William    gathers   flowers    for   Ellen's 

ringlets 
And  Ellen  dresses  flies  for  William's  angle, 
I  scarce  can  think  that  in  advancing  life 
Coldness,  unkindness,  interest,  or  suspicion 
Will  e'er  divide  that  unity  so  sacred, 
Which  Nature  bound  at  birth. 

Anonymous. 

Oh  !  you  would  be  a  vestal  maid,  I  warrant, 
The  bride  of  Heaven  —  Come  —  we  may  shake 

your  purpose  : 
For  here  I  bring  in  hand  a  jolly  suitor 
Hath  ta'en  degrees  in  the  seven  sciences 
That  ladies  love  best  —  He  is  young  and  noble, 
Handsome  and  valiant,  gay  and  rich,  and  liberal. 

The  Nun. 

It  comes  —  it  wrings  me  in  my  parting  hour, 
The  long-hid  crime  —  the  well-disguised  guilt. 
Bring  me  some  holy  priest  to  lay  the  spectre  ! 

Old  Play. 

Sedet  post  equitem  atra  cura  — 
Still  though  the  headlong  cavalier, 
O'er  rough  and  smooth,  in  wild  career, 

Seems  racing  with  the  wind  ; 
His  sad  companion  —  ghastly  pale, 
And  darksome  as  a  widow's  veil, 
Care  —  keeps  her  seat  behind. 

Horace. 

What  sheeted  ghost  is  wandering  through  the 

storm  ? 
For  never  did  a  maid  of  middle  earth 
Choose  such  a  time  or  spot  to  vent  her  sorrows. 

Old  Play. 

Here  come  we  to  our  close  —  for  that  which 
follows 

Is  but  the  tale  of  dull,  unvaried  misery. 

Steep  crags  and  headlong  lins  may  court  the 
pencil 

Like  sudden  haps,  dark  plots,  and  strange  ad- 
ventures; 

But   who  would  paint  the  dull  and  fog-wrapt 
moor 

In  its  long  tract  of  sterile  desolation  ? 

Old  Play. 


From  "  The  Betrothed:' 

In  Madoc's  tent  the  clarion  sounds, 
With  rapid  clangor  hurried  far  ; 

Each  hill  and  dale  the  note  rebounds, 
But  when  return  the  sons  of  war  ? 


Thou,  born  of  stern  Necessity, 
Dull  Peace  !  the  valley  yields  to  thee, 
And  owns  thy  melancholy  sway. 

Welsh  Poem- 

O,  sadly  shines  the  morning  sun 

On  leaguered  castle  wall, 
When  bastion,  tower,  and  battlement 

Seem  nodding  to  their  fall. 

Old  Ballad. 

Now,  all  ye  ladies  of  fair  Scotland, 

And   ladies  of   England   that   happy  would 
prove, 
Marry  never  for  houses,  nor  marry  for  land, 
Nor  marry  for  nothing  but  only  love. 

Family  Quarrels. 

Too  much  rest  is  rust, 

There  's  ever  cheer  in  changing  ; 
We  tyne  by  too  much  trust, 

So  we  '11  be  up  and  ranging. 

Old  Song. 

Ring  out  the  merry  bells,  the  bride  approaches. 
The  blush  upon  her  cheek  has   shamed  the 

morning, 
For  that  is  dawning  palely.    Grant,  good  saints, 
These  clouds  betoken  naught  of  evil  omen  ! 

Old  Play. 

Julia.  Gentle  sir, 

You  are  our  captive  —  but  we  '11  use  you  so, 
That  you  shall  think  your  prison  joys  may  match 
Whate'er  your  liberty  hath  known  of  pleasure. 
Roderick.     No,  fairest,  we  have  trifled  here 
too  long : 
And,  lingering  to  see  your  roses  blossom, 
I  've  let  my  laurels  wither. 

Old  Play. 


From  •  The  Talisman?' 

This  is  the  Prince  of  Leeches  ;  fever,  plague, 
Cold  rheum,  and  hot  podagra,  do  but  look  on 

him, 
And  quit  their  grasp  upon  the  tortured  sinews. 

Anonymous. 

One  thing  is  certain  in  our  Northern  land, 
Allow  that  birth  or  valor,  wealth  or  wit, 
Give  each  precedence  to  their  possessor, 
Envy,  that  follows  on  such  eminence 
As  comes  the  lyme-hound  on  the  roebuck's  trace, 
Shall  pull  them  down  each  one. 

Sir  David  Lindsay. 

You  talk  of  Gayety  and  Innocence  ! 
The  moment  when  the  fatal  fruit  was  eaten, 
They  parted  ne'er  to  meet  again  ;  and  Malice 
Has  ever  since  been  playmate  to  light  Gayety, 
From  the  first  moment  when  the  smiling  infant 
Destroys  the  flower  or  butterfly  he  toys  with, 
To  the  last  chuckle  of  the  dying  miser, 
Who  on  his  death-bed  laughs  his  last  to  hear 
His  wealthy  neighbor  has  become  a  bankrupt. 

Old  Play. 


558 


APPENDIX. 


T  is  not  her  sense  —  for  sure,  in  that 
There 's  nothing  more  than  common ; 

And  all  her  wit  is  only  chat, 
Like  any  other  woman. 

Song. 

Were  every  hair  upon  his  head  a  life, 
And  every  life  were  to  be  supplicated 
By  numbers  equal  to  those  hairs  quadrupled, 
Life  after  life  should  out  like  waning  stars 
Before  the  daybreak  —  or  as  festive  lamps, 
Which  have  lent  lustre  to  the  midnight  revel, 
Each  after  each  are  quenched  when  guests  de- 
part. 

Old  Play. 

Must  we  then  sheath  our  still  victorious  sword ; 
Turn  back  our  forward  step,  which  ever  trode 
O'er  foemen's  necks  the  onward  path  of  glory ; 
Unclasp  the  mail,  which  with  a  solemn  vow 
In  God's  own  house  we  hung  upon  our  shoul- 
ders; 
That  vow,  as  unaccomplished  as  the  promise 
Which  village  nurses  make  to  still  their  children, 
And  after  think  no  more  of  ? 

The  Crusade,  a  Tragedy. 

When  beauty  leads  the  lion  in  her  toils, 
Such  are  her  charms  he  dare  not  raise  his  mane, 
Far  less  expand  the  terror  of  his  fangs  ; 
So  great  Alcides  made  his  club  a  distaff, 
And  spun  to  please  fair  Omphale. 

Anonymous. 

Mid  these  wild  scenes  Enchantment  waves  her 

hand, 
To  change  the  face  of  the  mysterious  land ; 
Till  the  bewildering  scenes  around  us  seem 
The  vain  productions  of  a  feverish  dream. 

Astolpho,  a  Romance. 

A  GRAIN  Of  dust 

Soiling  our  cup,  will  make  our  sense  reject 
Fastidiously  the  draught  which  we  did  thirst  for ; 
A  rusted  nail,  placed  near  the  faithful  compass, 
Will  sway  it  from  the  truth  and  wreck  the  argosy. 
Even  this  small  cause  of  anger  and  disgust 
Will  break  the  bonds  of  amity  'mongst  princes 
And  wreck  their  noblest  purposes. 

The  Crusade. 

I'm  tears  T  shed  must  ever  fall ! 
p  not  for  an  absent  swain, 
For  time  may  happier  hours  recall, 
And  parted  lovers  meet  again. 

ep  not  for  the  silent  dead, 
Their  pains  are  past,  their  sorrows  o'er, 
And  those  that  loved  their  steps  must  tread, 
When  death  shall  join  to  part  no  more. 

Bat  worse  than  absence,  worse  than  death, 
She  wept  her  lover's  sullied  fame, 

And,  fired  with  all  the  pride  of  birth, 
She  wept  a  soldi< -r's  injured  name. 

Ballad. 


Prom  "  Woodstock:* 

Come  forth,  old  man  —  thy  daughter's  side 

Is  now  the  fitting  place  for  thee  : 
When  Time  hath  quelled  the  oak's  bold  pride, 
The  youthful  tendril  yet  may  hide 

The  ruins  of  the  parent  tree. 

Now,  ye  wild  blades,  that  make  loose  inns  your 

stage, 
To  vapor  forth  the  acts  of  this  sad  age, 
Stout  Edgehill  fight,  the  Newberries  and  the 

WTest, 
And  northern  clashes,  where  you  still  fought 

best ; 
Your  strange  escapes,  your  dangers  void  of  fear, 
When  bullets  flew  between  the  head  and  ear, 
Whether  you  fought  by  Damme  or  the  Spirit, 
Of  you  I  speak. 

Legend  of  Captain  Jones. 

Yon  path  of  greensward 
Winds  round  by  sparry  grot  and  gay  pavilion  ; 
There  is  no  flint  to  gall  thy  tender  foot, 
There 's   ready   shelter   from   each    breeze   or 

shower.  — 
But  Duty  guides  not  that  way  —  see  her  stand, 
With  wand  entwined  with  amaranth,  near  yon 

cliffs. 
Oft  where  she  leads  thy  blood  must  mark  thy 

footsteps, 
Oft  where  she  leads  thy  head  must  bear  the 

storm, 
And  thy  shrunk  form  endure  heat,  cold,  and 

hunger ; 
But  she  will  guide  thee  up  to  noble  heights, 
Which  he  who  gains  seems  native  of  the  sky, 
While  earthly  things  lie  stretched  beneath  his 

feet, 
Diminished,  shrunk,  and  valueless  — 

Anonymous. 

My  tongue  pads  slowly  under  this  new  language, 
And    starts    and    stumbles    at    these    uncouth 

phrases. 
They  may  be  great  in  worth  and  weight,  but 

hang 
Upon  the  native  glibne.ss  of  my  language 
Like  Saul's  plate-armor  on  the  shepherd  boy, 
Encumbering  and  not  arming  him. 

J.B. 

Here  we  have  one  head 
Upon  two  bodies  —  your  two-headed  bullock 
Is  but  an  ass  to  such  a  prodigy. 
These  two  have  but  one  meaning,  thought,  and 

counsel ; 
And  when  the  single  noddle  has  spoke  out, 
The  four  legs  scrape  assent  to  it. 

Old  Play. 

Deeds  are  done  on  earth 
Which   have   their   punishment  ere  the  earth 

closes 
Upon  the  perpetrators.     Be  it  the  working 
Of  the  remorse-stirred  fancy,  or  the  vision, 
Distinct  and  real,  of  unearthly  being, 


MOTTOES  FROM   THE  NOVELS. 


559 


All  ages  witness  that  beside  the  couch 
Of  the  fell  homicide  oft  stalks  the  ghost 
Of  him  he  slew,  and  shows  the  shadowy  wound. 

Old  Play. 
We  do  that  in  our  zeal 
Our  calmer  moments  are  afraid  to  answer. 
Anonymous. 

The  deadliest  snakes  are  those  which,  twined 
'mongst  flowers, 

Blend   their   bright   coloring  with   the  varied 
blossoms, 

Their  fierce  eyes  glittering  like  the  spangled 
dew-drop ; 

In  all  so  like  what  nature  has  most  harmless, 

That  sportive  innocence,  which  dreads  no  dan- 
ger, 

Is  poisoned  unawares. 

Old  Play. 


From  "  Chronicles  of  the  Canongate.'" 

Were  ever  such  two  loving  friends  !  — 
How  could  they  disagree  ? 

O,  thus  it  was  :  he  loved  him  dear, 
And  thought  but  to  requite  him  ; 

And,  having  no  friend  left  but  he, 
He  did  resolve  to  fight  him. 

Duke  upon  Duke. 

There  are  times 
When  Fancy  plays  her  gambols,  in  despite 
Even  of  our  watchful  senses,  when  in  sooth 
Substance    seems    shadow,   shadow   substance 

seems, 
When  the  broad,  palpable,  and  marked  partition 
'Twixt  that  which  is  and  is  not,  seems  dissolved, 
As  if  the  mental  eye  gained  power  to  gaze 
Beyond  the  limits  of  the  existing  world. 
Such  hours  of  shadowy  dreams  I  better  love 
Than  all  the  gross  realities  of  life. 

Anonymous. 


From  "  The  Fair  Maid  of  Perth." 

The  ashes  here  of  murdered  kings 
Beneath  my  footsteps  sleep  ; 

And  yonder  lies  the  scene  of  death 
Where  Mary  learned  to  weep. 

Captain  Marjoribanks. 

'  Behold  the  Tiber  !'  the  vain  Roman  cried, 
Viewing  the  ample  Tay  from  Baiglie's  side  ; 
But  where  's  the  Scot  that  would  the  vaunt  repay, 
And  hail  the  puny  Tiber  for  the  Tay. 

Anonymous. 
Fair  is  the  damsel,  passing  fair  — 

Sunny  at  distance  gleams  her  smile  ! 
Approach  —  the  cloud  of  wof ul  care 
Hangs  trembling  in  her  eye  the  while. 

Lucinda,  a  Ballad. 

O  for  a  draught  of  power  to  steep 
The  soul  of  agony  in  sleep  ! 

Bertha. 


Lo  !  where  he  lies  embalmed  in  gore, 
His  wound  to  Heaven  cries ; 

The  floodgates  of  his  blood  implore 
For  vengeance  from  the  skies. 

Uranus  and  Psyche. 


From  "Anne  of  Geierstein." 

Cursed  be  the  gold  and  silver  which  persuade 
Weak  man  to  follow  far  fatiguing  trade. 
The  lily,  peace,  outshines  the  silver  store, 
And  life  is  dearer  than  the  golden  ore. 
Yet  money  tempts  us  o'er  the  desert  brown 
To  every  distant  mart  and  wealthy  town. 

Hassan,  or  the  Camel-Driver. 

I  was  one 
Who  loved  the  greenwood  bank  and  lowing 

herd, 
The  russet  prize,  the  lowly  peasant's  life, 
Seasoned  with  sweet  content,  more  than  the  halls 
Where  revellers  feast  to  fever-height.     Believe 

me, 
There  ne'er  was  poison  mixed  in  maple  bowl. 

Anonymous. 

When  we  two  meet,  we  meet  like  rushing  tor- 
rents ; 

Like  warring  winds,  like  flames  from  various 
points, 

That  mate  each  other's  fury  —  there  is  naught 

Of  elemental  strife,  were  fiends  to  guide  it, 

Can  match  the  wrath  of  man. 

Frenaud. 

We  know  not  when  we  sleep  nor  when  we  wake. 
Visions  distinct  and  perfect  cross  our  eye, 
Which  to  the  slumberer  seem  realities ; 
And  while  they  waked,  some  men  have  seen  such 

sights 
As  set  at  naught  the  evidence  of  sense, 
And  left  them  well  persuaded  they  were  dream- 
ing. 

Anonymous. 

These  be  the   adept's   doctrines  —  every  ele- 
ment 
Is  peopled  with  its  separate  race  of  spirits. 
The  airy  Sylphs  on  the  blue  ether  float ; 
Deep  in  the  earthy  cavern  skulks  the  Gnome  ; 
The  sea-green  Naiad  skims  the  ocean-billow, 
And  the  fierce  fire  is  yet  a  friendly  home 
To  its  peculiar  sprite  —  the  Salamander. 

Anonymous. 

Upon  the  Rhine,  upon  the  Rhine  they  cluster, 

The  grapes  of  juice  divine, 
Which  make  the  soldier's  jovial  courage  mus- 
ter; 
O,  blessed  be  the  Rhine  ! 

Drinking-Song. 

Tell  me  not  of  it  —  I  could  ne'er  abide 
The  mummery  of  all  that  forced  civility. 
'  Pray,  seat  yourself,  my  lord.'     With  cringing 

hams 
The  speech  is  spoken,  and  with  bended  knee 


;6o 


APPENDIX. 


Heard  by  the  smiling  courtier.  —  '  Before  you, 

sir  ? 
It  must  be  on  the  earth,  then.'     Hang  it  all ! 
The   pride  which   cloaks   itself   in  siich   poor 

fashion 
Is  scarcely  fit  to  swell  a  beggar's  bosom. 

Old  Play. 

A  mirthful  man  he  was  —  the  snows  of  age 
Fell,  but  they  did  not  chill  him.     Gayety, 
Even  in  life's  closing,  touched  his  teeming  brain 
With  such  wild  visions  as  the  setting  sun 
Raises  in  front  of  some  hoar  glacier, 
Painting  the  bleak  ice  with  a  thousand  hues. 

Old  Play. 

Ay,  this  is  he  who  wears  the  wreath  of  bays 

Wove  by  Apollo  and  the  Sisters  Nine, 

Which  Jove's  dread  lightning  scathes  not.     He 

hath  doft 
The  cumbrous  helm  of  steel,  and  flung  aside 
The  yet  more  galling  diadem  of  gold; 
While,  with  a  leafy  circlet  round  his  brows, 
He  reigns  the  King  of  Lovers  and  of  Poets. 

Want  you  a  man 
Experienced  in  the  world  and  its  affairs  ? 
Here  he  is  for  your  purpose.  —  He 's  a  monk. 
He  hath  forsworn  the  world  and  all  its  work  — 
The  rather  that  he  knows  it  passing  well, 
'Special  the  worst  of  it,  for  he  's  a  monk. 

Old  Play. 
Toll,  toll  the  bell ! 
Greatness  is  o'er, 
The  heart  has  broke, 
To  ache  no  more  ; 
An  unsubstantial  pageant  all  — 
Drop  o'er  the  scene  the  funeral  pall. 

Old  Poem. 
Here  's  a  weapon  now 
Shall  shake  a  conquering  general  in  his  tent, 
A  monarch  on  his  throne,  or  reach  a  prelate, 
However  holy  be  his  offices, 
E'en  while  he  serves  the  altar. 

^  Old  Play. 

From  "  Count  Robert  of  Paris." 

Othus.  This  superb  successor 

<  )f  the  earth's  mistress,  as  thou  vainly  speakest, 
Stands  midst  these  ages  as,  on  the  wide  ocean, 
The  last  spared  fragment  of  a  spacious  land, 
That  in  some  grand  and  awful  ministration 

<  )f  mighty  nature  has  engulfed  been, 
Doth  lift  aloft  its  dark  and  rocky  cliffs 

O'er  the  wild  waste  around,  and  sadly  frowns 
In  lonely  majesty. 

•  Constantine  Paleologus,  Scene  i . 
Here,  youth,  thy  foot  unbrace, 

Here,  youth,  thy  brow  unbraid, 
Each  tribute  that  may  grace 

The  threshold  here  be  paid. 
Walk  with  the  stealthy  pace 

Which  Nature  teaches  deer, 
When,  echoing  in  the  chase, 
The  hunter's  horn  they  hear. 

The  Court. 


The  storm  increases  —  't  is  no  sunny  shower, 
Fostered  in  the  moist  breast  of  March  or  April, 
Or  such  as  parched  Summer  cools  his  lip  with ; 
Heaven's  windows  are  flung,  wide ;  the  inmost 

deeps 
Call  in  hoarse  greeting  one  upon  another ; 
On  comes  the  flood  in  all  its  foaming  horrors, 
And  where 's  the  dike  shall  stop  it ! 

The  Deluge,  a  Poem. 

Vain  man  !  thou  mayst  esteem  thy  love  as  fair 

As  fond  hyperboles  suffice  to  raise. 

She  may  be  all  that 's  matchless  in  her  person, 

And  all-divine  in  soul  to  match  her  body  ; 

But  take  this  from  me  —  thou  shalt  never  call  her 

Superior  to  her  sex  while  one  survives 

And  I  am  her  true  votary. 

Old  Play. 

Through  the  vain  webs  which  puzzle  sophists 
skill, 
Plain  sense  and  honest  meaning  work  their 
way; 
So  sink  the  varying  clouds  upon  the  hill 
When  the  clear  dawning  brightens  into  day. 

Dr.  Watts. 

Between  the  foaming  jaws  of  the  white  torrent 
The  skilful  artist  draws  a  sudden  mound  ; 
By  level  long  he  subdivides  their  strength, 
Stealing  the  waters  from  their  rocky  bed, 
First  to  diminish  what  he  means  to  conquer  ; 
Then,  for  the  residue  he  forms  a  road, 
Easy  to  keep,  and  painful  to  desert, 
And  guiding  to  the"  end  the  planner  aimed  at. 
The  Engineer. 

These  were  wild  times  —  the  antipodes  of  ours  : 
Ladies  were  there  who  oftener  saw  themselves 
In  the  broad  lustre  of  a  foeman's  shield 
Than  in  a  mirror,  and  who  rather  sought 
To  match  themselves  in  battle  than  in  dalliance 
To  meet  a  lover's  onset.  —  But  though  Nature 
Was  outraged  thus,  she  was  not  overcome. 
Feudal  Times. 

Without  a  ruin,  broken,  tangled,  cumbrous, 

Within  it  was  a  little  paradise, 

Where  Taste  had  made  her  dwelling.     Statuary, 

First-born  of  human  art,  moulded  her  images 

And  bade  men  mark  and  worship. 

Anonymous. 

The  parties  met.     The  wily,  wordy  Greek, 

Weighing  each  word,  and  canvassing  each  syl- 
lable, 8  y 

Evading,  arguing,  equivocating. 

And  the  stern  Frank  came  with  his  two-hand 
sword, 

Watching  to  see  which  way  the  balance  sways, 

That  he  may  throw  it  in  and  turn  the  scales. 

Palestine. 

Strange  ape  of  man !  who  loathes  thee  while 

he  scorns  thee ; 
Half  a  reproach  to  us  and  half  a  jest. 
What  fancies  can  be  ours  ere  we  have  pleasure 
In  viewing  our  own  form,  our  pride  and  passions, 
Reflected  in  a  shape  grotesque  as  thine  ! 

Anonymous. 


MOTTOES  FROM   THE  NOVELS. 


56l 


'T  is  strange  that  in  the  dark  sulphureous  mine 
Where  wild  ambition  piles  its  ripening  stores 
Of  slumbering  thunder,  Love  will  interpose 
His  tiny  torch,  and  cause  the  stern  explosion 
To  burst  when  the  deviser  's  least  aware. 

Anonymous. 

All  is  prepared  —  the  chambers  of  the  mine 
Are    crammed   with    the    combustible,   which, 

harmless 
While  yet  unkindled  as  the  sable  sand, 
Needs  but  a  spark  to  change  its  nature  so 
That  he  who  wakes  it  from  its  slumbrous  mood 
Dreads  scarce  the  explosion  less  than  he  who 

knows 
That  't  is  his  towers  which  meet  its  fury. 

Anonymous. 

Heaven  knows   its   time ;   the   bullet   has  its 

billet, 
Arrow  and  javelin  each  its  destined  purpose  ; 
The  fated  beasts  of  Nature's  lower  strain 
Have  each  their  separate  task. 

Old  Play. 


From  "  Castle  Dangerous?'' 

A  tale  of  sorrow,  for  your  eyes  may  weep  ; 
A  tale  of  horror,  for  your  flesh  may  tingle ; 
A  tale  of  wonder,  for  the  eyebrows  arch, 
And  the  flesh  curdles  if  you  read  it  rightly. 

Old  Play. 


Where  is  he  ?     Has  the  deep  earth  swallowed 

him  ? 
Or  hath  he  melted  like  some  airy  phantom 
That  shuns   the   approach   of  morn   and   the 

young  sun  ? 
Or  hath  he  wrapt  him  in  Cimmerian  darkness, 
And  passed  beyond  the  circuit  of  the  sight 
With  things  of  the  night's  shadows  ? 

Anonymous. 

The  way  is  long,  my  children,  long  and  rough  — 
The  moors  are  dreary  and  the  woods  are  dark  ; 
But  he  that  creeps  from  cradle  on  to  grave, 
Unskilled  save  in  the  velvet  course  of  fortune, 
Hath  missed  the  discipline  of  noble  hearts. 

Old  Play. 

His  talk  was  of  another  world  —  his  bodements 
Strange,  doubtful,  and  mysterious ;  those  who 

heard  him 
Listened  as  to  a  man  in  feverish  dreams, 
Who  speaks  of  other  objects  than  the  present, 
And  mutters  like  to  him  who  sees  a  vision. 

Old  Play. 

Cry  the  wild  war-note,  let  the  champions  pass, 

Do  bravely  each,  and  God  defend  the  right ; 

Upon  Saint  Andrew  thrice  can  they  thus  cry, 

And  thrice  they  shout  on  height, 

And  then  marked  them  on  the  Englishmen, 

As  I  have  told  you  right. 

Saint  George  the  bright,  our  ladies'  knight, 

To  name  they  were  full  fain  ; 

Our  Englishmen  they  cried  on  height, 

And  thrice  they  shout  again. 

Old  Ballad. 


36 


NOTES. 


Che  Hap  of  the  Hast  Jfltnstrel. 


The  Lay  was  first  published  early  in  January, 
1805, in  "a  magnificent  quarto,"  the  price  being 
25  shillings  (about  $6.25  in  Federal  money), 
and  the  edition  of  750  copies  was  speedily  ex- 
hausted. Up  to  1830  the  sales  had  amounted 
to  44,000  copies. 

The  poem  had  the  following  preface  :  — 

"  The  Poem,  now  offered  to  the  Public,  is  in- 
tended to  illustrate  the  customs  and  manners 
which  anciently  prevailed  on  the  Borders  of 
England  and  Scotland.  The  inhabitants  living 
in  a  state  partly  pastoral  and  partly  warlike, 
and  combining  habits  of  constant  depredation 
with  the  influence  of  a  rude  spirit  of  chivalry, 
were  often  engaged  in  scenes  highly  susceptible 
of  poetical  ornament.  As  the  description  of 
scenery  and  manners  was  more  the  object  of  the 
Author  than  a  combined  and  regular  narrative, 
the  plan  of  the  Ancient  Metrical  Romance  was 
adopted,  which  allows  greater  latitude,  in  this 
respect,  than  would  be  consistent  with  the  dig- 
nity of  a  regular  Poem.  The  same  model  of- 
fered other  facilities,  as  it  permits  an  occasional 
alteration  of  measure,  which,  in  some  degree, 
authorizes  the  change  of  rhythm  in  the  text. 
The  machinery,  also,  adopted  from  popular 
belief,  would  have  seemed  puerile  in  a  Poem 
which  did  not  partake  of  the  rudeness  of  the 
old  Ballad,  or  Metrical  Romance. 

"For  these  reasons,  the  Poem  was  put  into 
the  mouth  of  an  ancient  Minstrel,  the  last  of 
the  race,  who,  as  he  is  supposed  to  have  sur- 
vived the  Revolution,  might  have  caught  some- 
what of  the  refinement  of  modern  poetry,  without 
losing  the  simplicity  of  his  original  model.  The 
date  of  the  Tale  itself  is  about  the  middle  of  the 
sixteenth  century,  when  most  of  the  personages 
actually  flourished.  The  time  occupied  by  the 
action  is  Three  Nights  and  Three  Days." 

The  edition  of  1830  had  the  following  "  Intro- 
duction " :  — 

"A  Poem  of  nearly  thirty  years'  standing  may 
be  supposed  hardly  to  need  an  Introduction, 
since,  without  one,  it  has  been  able  to  keep  itself 
afloat  through  the  best  part  of  a  generation. 
Nevertheless,  as,  in  the  edition  of  the  Waverley 
Novels  now  in  course  of  publication  [1830],  I 
have  imposed  on  myself  the  task  of  saying  some- 


thing concerning  the  purpose  and  history  of 
each,  in  their  turn,  I  am  desirous  that  the  Poems 
for  which  I  first  received  some  marks  of  the 
public  favor  should  also  be  accompanied  with 
such  scraps  of  their  literary  history  as  may  be 
supposed  to  carry  interest  along  with  them. 
Even  if  I  should  be  mistaken  in  thinking  that 
the  secret  history  of  what  was  once  so  popular 
may  still  attract  public  attention  and  curiosity, 
it  seems  to  me  not  without  its  use  to  record  the 
manner  and  circumstances  under  which  the  pres- 
ent, and  other  Poems  on  the  same  plan,  attained 
for  a  season  an  extensive  reputation. 

"  I  must  resume  the  story  of  my  literary  la- 
bors at  the  period  at  which  I  broke  off  in  the 
Essay  on  the  Imitation  of  Popular  Poetry,1 
when  I  had  enjoyed  the  first  gleam  of  public 
favour,  by  the  success  of  the  first  edition  of  the 
Minstrelsy  of  the  Scottish  Border.  The  second 
edition  of  that  work,  published  in  1803,  proved, 
in  the  language  of  the  trade,  rather  a  heavy  con- 
cern. The  demand  in  Scotland  had  been  sup- 
plied by  the  first  edition,  and  the  curiosity  of 
the  English  was  not  much  awakened  by  poems 
in  the  rude  garb  of  antiquity,  accompanied  with 
notes  referring  to  the  obscure  feuds  of  barbar- 
ous clans,  of  whose  very  names  civilized  his- 
tory was  ignorant.  It  was,  on  the  whole,  one  of 
those  books  which  are  more  praised  than  they 
are  read. 

"  At  this  time  I  stood  personally  in  a  different 
position  from  that  which  I  occupied  when  I 
first  dipt  my  desperate  pen  in  ink  for  other  pur- 
poses than  those  of  my  profession.  In  1796, 
when  I  first  published  the  translations  from 
Burger,  I  was  an  insulated  individual,  with  only 
my  own  wants  to  provide  for,  and  having,  in  a 
great  measure,  my  own  inclinations  alone  to 
consult.     In  1803,  when  the  second  edition  of 

1  In  this  essay,  printed  in  the  1830  edition  of  the  Bor- 
der Minstrelsy,  Scott  gives  an  account  of  his  schoolboy 
attempts  at  writing  verse,  of  his  translations  of  Burger's 
Lenore  and  Der  Wilde  Jtiger  (brought  out  in  1796  under 
the  title  of  William  and  Helen,  but  "  a  dead  loss  "  to  the 
publishers),  of  his  subsequent  versions  of  sundry  German 
dramas,  of  his  first  attempts  at  ballad-writing  (Glen/inlas 
and  The  Ev<  of  St.  John,  included  in  "  Monk  "  Lewis's 
Tales  0/  Wonder  in  1801),  and  of  his  first  literary  success 
in  the  Border  Minstrelsy  of  1S02. 


566 


NOTES. 


the  Minstrelsy  appeared,  I  had  arrived  at  a 
period  of  life  when  men.  however  thoughtless, 
encounter  duties  and  circumstances  which  press 
consideration  and  plans  of  life  upon  the  most 
careless  minds.  I  had  been  for  some  time  mar- 
ried,—  was  the  father  of  a  rising  family,  and, 
though  fully  enabled  to  meet  the  consequent 
demands  upon  me,  it  was  my  duty  and  desire  to 
place  myself  in  a  situation  which  would  enable 
me  to  make  honorable  provision  against  the 
various  contingencies  of  life. 

"  It  may  be  readily  supposed  that  the  attempts 
which  I  had  made  in  literature  had  been  unfav- 
orable to  my  success  at  the  bar.  The  goddess 
Themis  is,  at  Edinburgh,  and  I  suppose  every- 
where else,  of  a  peculiarly  jealous  disposition. 
She  will  not  readily  consent  to  share  her  au- 
thority, and  sternly  demands  from  her  votaries, 
not  only  that  real  duty  be  carefully  attended  to 
and  discharged,  but  that  a  certain  air  of  busi- 
ness shall  be  observed  even  in  the  midst  of  total 
idleness.  It  is  prudent,  if  not  absolutely  neces- 
sary, in  a  young  barrister,  to  appear  completely 
engrossed  by  his  profession  ;  however  destitute 
of  employment  he  may  in  reality  be,  he  ought 
to  preserve,  if  possible,  the  appearance  of  full 
occupation.  He  should,  therefore,  seem  per- 
petually engaged  among  his  law-papers,  dust- 
ing them,  as  it  were  ;  and,  as  Ovid  advises  the 
fair, 

'  Si  nullus  erit  pulvis,  tamen  excute  nullum.' * 
Perhaps  such  extremity  of  attention  is  more 
especially  required,  considering  the  great  num- 
ber of  counsellors  who  are  called  to  the  bar,  and 
how  very  small  a  proportion  of  them  are  finally 
disposed,  or  find  encouragement,  to  follow  the 
law  as  a  profession.  Hence  the  number  of 
deserters  is  so  great  that  the  least  lingering 
look  behind  occasions  a  young  novice  to  be  set 
down  as  one  of  the  intending  fugitives.  Certain 
it  is,  that  the  Scottish  Themis  was  at  this  time 
peculiarly  jealous  of  any  flirtation  with  the 
Muses,  on  the  part  of  those  who  had  ranged 
themselves  under  her  banners.  This  was  prob- 
ably owing  to  her  consciousness  of  the  superior 
attractions  of  her  rivals.  Of  late,  however,  she 
has  relaxed  in  some  instances  in  this  particular, 
an  eminent  example  of  which  has  been  shown 
in  the  case  of  my  friend  Mr.  Jeffrey,  who,  after 
long  conducting  one  of  the  most  influential  lit- 
erary periodicals  of  the  age  with  unquestion- 
able ability,  has  been,  by  the  general  consent  of 
hi>  brethren,  recently  elected  to  be  their  Dean  of 
Faculty,  or  President,  —  being  the  highest  ac- 
knowledgment of  his  professional  talents  which 
they  had  it  in  their  power  to  offer.  But  this  is 
an  incident  much  beyond  the  ideas  of  a  period 
of  thirty  years'  distance,  when  a  barrister  who 
really  possessed  any  turn  for  lighter  literature 
M  much  pains  to  conceal  it  as  if  it  had 
in  reality  been  something  to  be  ashamed  of;  and 
f  could  mention  more  than  one  instance  in  which 
literature  and  society  have  suffered  much  loss 
that  jurisprudence  might  be  enriched. 

was  not  my  case  ;  for  the 

1  •'  If  dust  be  none,  yet  brush  that  none  away." 


reader  wili  not  wonder  that  my  open  interfer- 
ence with  matters  of  light  literature  diminished 
my  employment  in  the  weightier  matters  of  the 
law.  Nor  did  the  solicitors,  upon  whose  choice 
the  counsel  takes  rank  in  his  profession,  do  me 
less  than  justice,  by  regarding  others  among  my 
contemporaries  as  fitter  to  discharge  the  duty 
due  to  their  clients,  than  a  young  man  who  was 
taken  up  with  running  after  ballads,  whether 
Teutonic  or  national.  My  profession  and  I, 
therefore,  came  to  stand  nearly  upon  the  foot- 
ing which  honest  Slender  consoled  himself  on 
having  established  with  Mistress  Anne  Page : 
'  There  was  no  great  love  between  us  at  the  be- 
ginning, and  it  pleased  Heaven  to  decrease  it 
on  farther  acquaintance.'  I  became  sensible 
that  the  time  was  come  when  I  must  either 
buckle  myself  resolutely  to  the  'toil  by  day,  the 
lamp  by  night,'  renouncing  all  the  Delilahs  of 
my  imagination,  or  bid  adieu  to  the  profession 
of  the  law,  and  hold  another  course. 

"  I  confess  my  own  inclination  revolted  from 
the  more  severe  choice,  which  might  have  been 
deemed  by  many  the  wiser  alternative  As  my 
transgressions  had  been  numerous,  my  repent- 
ance must  have  been  signalized  by  unusual  sac- 
rifices. I  ought  to  have  mentioned  that  since 
my  fourteenth  or  fifteenth  year  my  health,  ori- 
ginally delicate,  had  become  extremely  robust. 
From  infancy  I  had  labored  under  the  infirmity 
of  a  severe  lameness ;  but,  as  I  believe  is  usu- 
ally the  case  with  men  of  spirit  who  suffer  under 
personal  inconveniences  of  this  nature,  I  had, 
since  the  improvement  of  my  health,  in  defi- 
ance of  this  incapacitating  circumstance,  dis- 
tinguished myself  by  the  endurance  of  toil  on 
foot  or  horseback,  having  often  walked  thirty 
miles  a  day,  and  rode  upwards  of  a  hundred, 
without  resting.  In  this  manner  I  made  many 
pleasant  journeys  through  parts  of  the  country 
then  not  very  accessible,  gaining  more  amuse- 
ment and  instruction  than  I  have  been  able  to 
acquire  since  I  have  travelled  in  a  more  com- 
modious manner.  I  practised  most  sylvan  sports 
also,  with  some  success  and  with  great  delight. 
But  these  pleasures  must  have  been  all  resigned, 
or  used  with  great  moderation,  had  I  determined 
to  regain  my  station  at  the  bar.  It  was  even 
doubtful  whether  I  could,  with  perfect  character 
as  a  jurisconsult,  retain  a  situation  in  a  volun- 
teer corps  of  cavalry,  which  I  then  held.  The 
threats  of  invasion  were  at  this  time  instant  and 
menacing;  the  call  by  Britain  on  her  children 
was  universal,  and  was  answered  by  some,  who, 
like  myself,  consulted  rather  their"  desire  than 
their  ability  to  bear  arms.  My  services,  how- 
ever, were  found  useful  in  assisting  to  maintain 
the  discipline  of  the  corps,  being  the  point  on 
which  their  constitution  rendered  them  most 
amenable  to  military  criticism.  In  other  re- 
spects the  squadron  was  a  fine  one,  consisting 
chiefly  of  handsome  men,  well  mounted  and 
armed  at  their  own  expense.  My  attention  to 
the  corps  took  up  a  good  deal  of  time ;  and 
while  it  occupied  many  of  the  happiest  hours 
of  my  life,  it  furnished  an  additional  reason  for 
my  reluctance  again  to  encounter  the    severe 


THE  LA  Y  OF   THE  LAST  MINSTREL. 


56/ 


course  of  study  indispensable  to  success  in  the 
juridical  profession. 

"  On  the  other  hand,  my  father,  whose  feel- 
ings might  have  been  hurt  by  my  quitting  the 
bar,  had  been  for  two  or  three  years  dead,  so 
that  I  had  no  control  to  thwart  my  own  inclina- 
tion ;  and  my  income  being  equal  to  all  the  com- 
forts, and  some  of  the  elegancies,  of  life,  I  was 
not  pressed  to  an  irksome  labor  by  necessity, 
that  most  powerful  of  motives ;  consequently, 
I  was  the  more  easily  seduced  to  choose  the 
employment  which  was  most  agreeable  to  me. 
This  was  yet  the  easier,  that  in  1800  I  had  ob- 
tained the  preferment  of  Sheriff  of  Selkirkshire, 
about  ^300  a-year  in  value,  and  which  was  the 
more  agreeable  to  me  as  in  that  county  I  had  sev- 
eral friends  and  relations.  But  I  did  not  abandon 
the  profession  to  which  I  had  been  educated 
without  certain  prudential  resolutions,  which, 
at  the  risk  of  some  egotism,  I  will  here  men- 
tion ;  not  without  the  hope  that  they  may  be 
useful  to  young  persons  who  may  stand  in  cir- 
cumstances similar  to  those  in  which  I  then 
stood. 

"  In  the  first  place,  upon  considering  the  lives 
and  fortunes  of  persons  who  had  given  them- 
selves up  to  literature,  or  to  the  task  of  pleas- 
ing the  public,  it  seemed  to  me  that  the  circum- 
stances which  chiefly  affected  their  happiness 
and  character  were  those  from  which  Horace 
has  bestowed  upon  authors  the  epithet  of  the 
Irritable  Race.  It  requires  no  depth  of  philo- 
sophic reflection  to  perceive  that  the  petty  war- 
fare of  Pope  with  the  Dunces  of  his  period 
could  not  have  been  carried  on  without  his  suf- 
fering the  most  acute  torture,  such  as  a  man 
must  endure  from  mosquitoes,  by  whose  stings 
he  suffers  agony,  although  he  can  crush  them 
in  his  grasp  by  myriads.  Nor  is  it  necessary  to 
call  to  memory  the  many  humiliating  instances 
in  which  men  of  the  greatest  genius  have,  to 
avenge  some  pitiful  quarrel,  made  themselves 
ridiculous  during  their  lives,  to  become  the 
still  more  degraded  objects  of  pity  to  future 
times. 

"  Upon  the  whole,  as  I  had  no  pretension  to 
the  genius  of  the  distinguished  persons  who  had 
fallen  into  such  errors,  I  concluded  there  could 
be  no  occasion  for  imitating  them  in  their  mis- 
takes, or  what  I  considered  as  such ;  and,  in 
adopting  literary  pursuits  as  the  principal  occu- 
pation of  my  future  life,  I  resolved,  if  possible, 
to  avoid  those  weaknesses  of  temper  which 
seemed  to  have  most  easily  beset  my  more 
celebrated  predecessors. 

"  With  this  view,  it  was  my  first  resolution 
to  keep  as  far  as  was  in  my  power  abreast  of 
society,  continuing  to  maintain  my  place  in  gen- 
eral company,  without  yielding  to  the  very  nat- 
ural temptation  of  narrowing  myself  to  what  is 
called  literary  society.  By  doing  so,  I  imagined 
I  should  escape  the  besetting  sin  of  listening  to 
language  which,  from  one  motive  or  other,  is  apt 
to  ascribe  a  very  undue  degree  of  consequence 
to  literary  pursuits,  as  if  they  were,  indeed,  the 
business,  rather  than  the  amusement,  of  life. 
The  opposite  course  can  only  be  compared  to 


the  injudicious  conduct  of  one  who  pampers 
himself  with  cordial  and  luscious  draughts, 
until  he  is  unable  to  endure  wholesome  bit- 
ters. •  Like  Gil  Bias,  therefore,  I  resolved  to 
stick  by  the  society  of  my  contmis,  instead  of 
seeking  that  of  a  more  literary  cast,  and  to  main- 
tain my  general  interest  in  what  was  going  on 
around  me,  reserving  the  man  of  letters  for  the 
desk  and  the  library. 

"  My  second  resolution  was  a  corollary  from 
the  first.  I  determined  that,  without  shutting 
my  ears  to  the  voice  of  true  criticism,  I  would 
pay  no  regard  to  that  which  assumes  the  form 
of  satire.  I  therefore  resolved  to  arm  myself 
with  that  triple  brass  of  Horace,  of  which  those 
of  my  profession  are  seldom  held  deficient, 
against  all  the  roving  warfare  of  satire,  parody, 
and  sarcasm  ;  to  laugh  if  the  jest  was  a  good 
one;  or,  if  otherwise,  to  let  it  hum  and  buzz 
itself  to  sleep. 

"It  is  to  the  observance  of  these  rules  (ac- 
cording to  my  best  belief)  that,  after  a  life  of 
thirty  years  engaged  in  literary  labors  of  vari- 
ous kinds,  I  attribute  my  never  having  been  en- 
tangled in  any  literary  quarrel  or  controversy  ; 
and,  which  is  a  still  more  pleasing  result,  that  I 
have  been  distinguished  by  the  personal  friend- 
ship of  my  most  approved  contemporaries  of 
all  parties. 

"  I  adopted,  at  the  same  time,  another  reso- 
lution, on  which  it  may  doubtless  be  remarked 
that  it  was  well  for  me  that  I  had  it  in  my 
power  to  do  so,  and  that,  therefore,  it  is  a  line 
of  conduct  which,  depending  upon  accident,  can 
be  less  generally  applicable  in  other  cases.  Yet 
I  fail  not  to  record  this  part  of  my  plan,  con- 
vinced that,  though  it  may  not  be  in  every  one's 
power  to  adopt  exactly  the  same  resolution,  he 
may  nevertheless,  by  his  own  exertions,  in  some 
shape  or  other,  attain  the  object  on  which  it 
was  founded,  namely,  to  secure  the  means  of 
subsistence,  without  relying  exclusively  on  liter- 
ary talents.  In  this  respect,  I  determined,  that 
literature  should  be  my  staff,  but  not  my  crutch, 
and  that  the  profits  of  my  literary  labor,  how- 
ever convenient  otherwise,  should  not,  if  I 
could  help  it,  become  necessary  to  my  ordi- 
nary expenses.  With  this  purpose  I  resolved, 
if  the  interest  of  my  friends  could  so  far  favor 
me,  to  retire  upon  any  of  the  respectable  offices 
of  the  law,  in  which  persons  of  that  profession 
are  glad  to  take  refuge,  when  they  feel  them- 
selves, or  are  judged  by  others,  incompetent  to 
aspire  to  its  higher  honors.  Upon  such  a 
post  an  author  might  hope  to  retreat,  without 
any  perceptible  alteration  of  circumstances, 
whenever  the  time  should  arrive  that  the  pub- 
lic grew  weary  of  his  endeavors  to  please,  or 
he  himself  should  tire  of  the  pen.  At  this 
period  of  my  life,  I  possessed  so  many  friends 
capable  of  assisting  me  in  this  object  of  ambi- 
tion, that  I  could  hardly  overrate  my  own 
prospects  of  obtaining  the  preferment  to  which 
I  limited  my  wishes ;  and,  in  fact,  I  obtained, 
in  no  long  period,  the  reversion  of  a  situation 
which  completely  met  them. 

"  Thus  far  all  was  well,  and  the  Author  had 


568 


NOTES. 


been  guilty,  perhaps,  of  no  great  imprudence, 
when  he  relinquished  his  forensic  practice  with 
the  hope  of  making  some  figure  in  the  field  of 
literature.  But  an  established  character  with 
the  public,  in  my  new  capacity,  still  remained 
to  be  acquired.  I  have  noticed  that  the  trans- 
lations from  Burger  had  been  unsuccessful,  nor 
had  the  original  poetry  which  appeared  under 
the  auspices  of  Mr.  Lewis,  in  the  'Tales  of 
Wonder,'  in  any  great  degree  raised  my  reputa- 
tion. It  is  true,  I  had  private  friends  disposed 
to  second  me  in  my  efforts  to  obtain  popular- 
ity. But  I  was  sportsman  enough  to  know,  that 
if  the  greyhound  does  not  run  well,  the  halloos 
of  his  patrons  will  not  obtain  the  prize  for 
him. 

"Neither  was  I  ignorant  that  the  practice 
of  ballad-writing  was  for  the  present  out  of 
fashion,  and  that  any  attempt  to  revive  it,  or 
to  found  a  poetical  character  upon  it,  would 
certainly  fail  of  success.  The  ballad  measure 
itself,  which  was  once  listened  to  as  to  an  en- 
chanting melody,  had  become  hackneyed  and 
sickening,  from  its  being  the  accompaniment 
of  every  grinding  hand-organ ;  and  besides,  a 
long  work  in  quatrains,  whether  those  of  the 
common  ballad,  or  such  as  are  termed  elegiac, 
has  an  effect  upon  the  mind  like  that  of  the 
bed  of  Procrustes  upon  the  human  body;  for, 
as  it  must  be  both  awkward  and  difficult  to 
carry  on  a  long  sentence  from  one  stanza  to 
another,  it  follows  that  the  meaning  of  each 
period  must  be  comprehended  within  four  lines, 
and  equally  so  that  it  must  be  extended  so  as 
to  fill  that  space.  The  alternate  dilation  and 
contraction  thus  rendered  necessary  is  singu- 
larly unfavorable  to  narrative  composition; 
and  the  4  Gondibert'  of  Sir  William  D'Ave- 
nant,  though  containing  many  striking  passages, 
has  never  become  popular,  owing  chiefly  to  its 
being  told  in  this  species  of  elegiac  verse. 

"  In  the  dilemma  occasioned  by  this  objec- 
tion, the  idea  occurred  to  the  Author  of  using 
the  measured  short  line,  which  forms  the  struc- 
ture of  so  much  minstrel  poetry,  that  it  may  be 
properly  termed  the  Romantic  stanza,  by  way 
of  distinction ;  and  which  appears  so  natural 
to  our  language,  that  the  very  best  of  our  poets 
have  not  been  able  to  protract  it  into  the  verse 
properly  called  Heroic,  without  the  use  of  epi- 
thets which  are,  to  say  the  least,  unnecessary.1 
But,  on  the  other  hand,  the  extreme  facility  of 
the  short  couplet,  which  seems  congenial  to  our 
language,  and  was,  doubtless  for  that  reason, 
so  popular  with  our  old  minstrels,  is,  for  the 
same  reason,  apt  to  prove  a  snare  to  the  com- 
poser who  uses  it  in  more  modern  days,  by 
encouraging  him  in  a  habit  of  slovenly  com- 

*  "Thus  it  has  been  often  remarked,  that,  in  the  open- 
ing: couplets  of  Pope's  translation  of  the  Iliad,  there  are  two 
syllables  forming  a  superfluous  word  in  each  line,  as  may 
be  observed  by  attending  to  such  words  as  are  printed  in 
Italics. 

'  Achillas'  wrath  to  <  .rcece  the  direful  spring 

i  iml.cr'd,  heavenly  goddess,  sifiir  : 
That  wrath  which  sent  to  Pluto's  gloomy  reign, 
lis  of  mighty  chiefs  in  Kittle  slain, 
iinluiried  on  the  desert  shore, 
Devouring  dogs  and  hungry  vultures  tore.' " 


position.  The  necessity  of  occasional  pauses 
often  forces  the  young  poet  to  pay  more 
attention  to  sense,  as  the  boy's  kite  rises 
highest  when  the  train  is  loaded  by  a  due 
counterpoise.  The  Author  was  therefore  intimi- 
dated by  what  Byron  calls  the  'fatal  facility' 
of  the  octosyllabic  verse,  which  was  otherwise 
better  adapted  to  his  purpose  of  imitating  the 
more  ancient  poetry. 

"  I  was  not  less  at  a  loss  for  a  subject  which 
might  admit  of  being  treated  with  the  simp]icT 
ity  and  wildness  of  the  ancient  ballad.  But 
accident  dictated  both  a  theme  and  measure 
which  decided  the  subject  as  well  as  the  struc- 
ture of  the  poem. 

"The  lovely  young  Countess  of  Dalkeith, 
afterwards  Harriet  Duchess  of  Buccleuch, 
had  come  to  the  land  of  her  husband  with 
the  desire  of  making  herself  acquainted  with 
its  traditions  and  customs,  as  well  as  its  man- 
ners and  history.  All  who  remember  this  lady 
will  agree  that  the  intellectual  character  of  her 
extreme  beauty,  the  amenity  and  courtesy  of 
her  manners,  the  soundness  of  her  understand- 
ing, and  her  unbounded  benevolence,  gave 
more  the  idea  of  an  angelic  visitant  than  of 
a  being  belonging  to  this  nether  world ;  and 
such  a  thought  was  but  too  consistent  with  the 
short  space  she  was  permitted  to  tarry  among 
us.  Of  course,  where  all  made  it  a  pride  and 
pleasure  to  gratify  her  wishes,  she  soon  heard 
enough  of  Border  lore  ;  among  others,  an  aged 
gentleman  of  property,1  near  Langholm,  com- 
municated to  her  ladyship  the  story  of  Gilpin 
Horner,  a  tradition  in  which  the  narrator,  and 
many  more  of  that  country,  were  firm  believers. 
The  young  Countess,  much  delighted  with  the 
legend,  and  the  gravity  and  full  confidence  with 
which  it  was  told,  enjoined  on  me  as  a  task  to 
compose  a  ballad  on  the  subject.  Of  course,  to 
hear  was  to  obey ;  and  thus  the  goblin  story  ob- 
jected to  by  several  critics  as  an  excrescence 
upon  the  poem  was,  in  fact,  the  occasion  of  its 
being  written. 

**  A  chance  similar  to  that  which  dictated  the 
subject  gave  me  also  the  hint  of  a  new  mode 
of  treating  it.  We  had  at  that  time  the  lease 
of  a  pleasant  cottage  near  Lasswade,  on  the 
romantic  banks  of  the  Esk,  to  which  we  es- 
caped when  the  vacations  of  the  Court  per- 
mitted me  so  much  leisure.  Here  I  had  the 
pleasure  to  receive  a  visit  from  Mr.  Stoddart 
(now  Sir  John  Stoddart,  Judge- Advocate  at 
Malta),  who  was  at  that  time  collecting  the 
particulars  which  he  afterwards  embodied  in 

x  This  was  Mr.  Beattie  of  Mickledale,  a  man  then  con- 
siderably upwards  of  eighty,  of  a  shrewd  and  sarcastic 
temper,  which  he  did  not  at  all  times  suppress,  as  the  fol- 
lowing anecdote  will  show: — A  worthy  clergyman,  now 
deceased,  with  better  good-will  than  tact,  was  endeavor- 
ing to  push  the  senior  forward  in  his  recollection  of  Border 
ballads  and  legends,  by  expressing  reiterated  surprise  at 
his  wonderful  memory.  "  No,  sir,"  said  old  Mickledale  ; 
my  memory  is  good  for  little,  for  it  connot  retain  what 
ought  to  be  preserved.  I  can  remember  all  these  stories 
about  the  auld  riding  days,  which  are  of  no  earthly  im- 
portance ;  but  were  you,  reverend  sirv  to  repeat  your  best 
sermon  in  this  drawing-room,  I  could  not  tell  you  half  an 
hour  afterwards  what  you  had  been  speaking  about. " 


THE  LAY  OF   THE  LAST  MINSTREL. 


569 


his  Remarks  on  Local  Scenery  in  Scotland.  I 
was  of  some  use  to  him  in  procuring  the  in- 
formation which  he  desired,  and  guiding  him 
to  the  scenes  which  he  wished  to  see.  In  re- 
turn, he  made  me  better  acquainted  than  I  had 
hitherto  been  with  the  poetic  effusions  which 
have  since  made  the  Lakes  of  Westmoreland, 
and  the  authors  by  whom  they  have  been  sung, 
so  famous  wherever  the  English  tongue  is 
spoken. 

"I  was  already  acquainted  with  the  'Joan  of 
Arc/  the  ■  Thalaba,'  and  the  '  Metrical  Ballads  » 
of  Mr.  Southey,  which  had  found  their  way  to 
Scotland,  and  were  generally  admired.  But 
Mr.  Stoddart,  who  had  the  advantage  of  per- 
sonal friendship  with  the  authors,  and  who  pos-, 
sessed  a  strong  memory  with  an  excellent  taste, 
was  able  to  repeat  to  me  many  long  specimens 
of  their  poetry,  which  had  not  yet  appeared  in 
print.  Amongst  others,  was  the  striking  frag- 
ment called  Christabel,  by  Mr.  Coleridge,  which, 
from  the  singularly  irregular  structure  of  the 
stanzas,  and  the  liberty  which  it  allowed  the 
author  to  adapt  the  sound  to  the  sense,  seemed 
to  be  exactly  suited  to  such  an  extravaganza  as 
I  meditated  on  the  subject  of  Gilpin  Horner. 
As  applied  to  comic  and  humorous  poetry,  this 
mescolanza  of  measures  had  been  already  used 
by  Anthony  Hall,  Anstey,  Dr.  Wolcott,  and 
others;  but  it  was  in  Christabel  that  I  first 
found  it  used  in  serious  poetry,  and  it  is  to  Mr. 
Coleridge  that  I  am  bound  to  make  the  ac- 
knowledgment due  from  the  pupil  to  his 
master.  I  observe  that  Lord  Byron,  in  notic- 
ing my  obligations  to  Mr.  Coleridge,  which  I 
have  been  always  most  ready  to  acknowledge, 
expressed,  or  was  understood  to  express,  a 
hope  that  I  did  not  write  an  unfriendly  review 
on  Mr.  Coleridge's  productions.  On  this  sub- 
ject I  have  only  to  say  that  I  do  not  even  know 
the  review  which  is  alluded  to  ;  and  were  I  ever 
to  take  the  unbecoming  freedom  of  censuring 
a  man  of  Mr.  Coleridge's  extraordinary  talents, 
it  would  be  on  account  of  the  caprice  and  in- 
dolence with  which  he  has  thrown  from  him, 
as  if  in  mere  wantonness,  those  unfinished 
scraps  of  poetry,  which,  like  the  Torso  of  an- 
tiquity, defy  the  skill  of  his  poetical  brethren 
to  complete  them.  The  charming  fragments 
which  the  author  abandons  to  their  fate,  are 
surely  too  valuable  to  be  treated  like  the  proofs 
of  careless  engravers,  the  sweepings  of  whose 
studios  often  make  the  fortune  of  some  pains- 
taking collector. 

"  I  did  not  immediately  proceed  upon  my 
projected  labor,  though  I  was  now  furnished 
with  a  subject,  and  with  a  structure  of  verse 
which  might  have  the  effect  of  novelty  to  the 
public  ear,  and  afford  the  author  an  oppor- 
tunity of  varying  his  measure  with  the  varia- 
tions of  a  romantic  theme.  On  the  contrary, 
it  was,  to  the  best  of  my  recollection,  more 
than  a  year  after  Mr.  Stoddart's  visit,  that,  by 
way  of  experiment,  I  composed  the  first  two  or 
three  stanzas  of  'The  Lay  of  the  Last  Min- 
strel.' I  was  shortly  afterwards  visited  by  two 
intimate  friends,  one   of  whom  still  survives. 


They  were  men  whose  talents  might  have 
raised  them  to  the  highest  station  in  litera- 
ture, had  they  not  preferred  exerting  them  in 
their  own  profession  of  the  law,  in  which  they 
attained  equal  preferment.  I  was  in  the  habit 
of  consulting  them  on  my  attempts  at  composi- 
tion, having  equal  confidence  in  their  sound 
taste  and  friendly  sincerity.  In  this  specimen 
I  had,  in  the  phrase  of  the  Highland  servant, 
packed  all  that  was  my  own  at  least,  for  I  had 
also  included  a  line  of  invocation,  a  little  soft- 
ened, from  Coleridge  — 

1  Mary,  mother,  shield  us  well.' 
As  neither  of  my  friends  said  much  to  me  on 
the  subject  of  the  stanzas  I  showed  them  before 
their  departure,  I  had  no  doubt  that  their  dis- 
gust had  been  greater  than  their  good-nature 
chose  to  express.  Looking  upon  them,  there- 
fore, as  a  failure,  I  threw  the  manuscript  into 
the  fire,  and  thought  as  little  more  as  I  could 
of  the  matter.  Some  time  afterwards  I  met 
one  of  my  two  counsellors,  who  inquired,  with 
considerable  appearance  of  interest,  about  the 
progress  of  the  romance  I  had  commenced,  and 
was  greatly  surprised  at  learning  its  fate.  He 
confessed  that  neither  he  nor  our  mutual  friend 
had  been  at  first  able  to  give  a  precise  opinion 
on  a  poem  so  much  out  of  the  common  road ; 
but  that  as  they  walked  home  together  to  the 
city,  they  had  talked  much  on  the  subject,  and 
the  result  was  an  earnest  desire  that  I  would 
proceed  with  the  composition.  He  also  added, 
that  some  sort  of  prologue  might  be  necessary, 
to  place  the  mind  of  the  hearers  in  the  situa- 
tion to  understand  and  enjoy  the  poem,  and 
recommended  the  adoption  of  such  quaint 
mottoes  as  Spenser  has  used  to  announce  the 
contents  of  the  chapters  of  the  Faery  Queen, 
such  as  — 

'  Babe's  bloody  hands  may  not  be  cleansed. 

The  face  of  golden  Mean : 
Her  sisters  two,  Extremities, 

Strive  her  to  banish  clean.' 

I  entirely  agreed  with  my  friendly  critic  in  the 
necessity  of  having  some  sort  of  pitch-pipe, 
which  might  make  readers  aware  of  the  object, 
or  rather  the  tone,  of  the  publication.  But  I 
doubted  whether,  in  assuming  the  oracular 
style  of  Spenser's  mottoes,  the  interpreter 
might  not  be  censured  as  the  harder  to  be 
understood  of  the  two.  I  therefore  introduced 
the  Old  Minstrel,  as  an  appropriate  prolocutor 
by  whom  the  lay  might  be  sung  or  spoken,  and 
the  introduction  of  whom  betwixt  the  cantos 
might  remind  the  reader  at  intervals  of  the 
time,  place,  and  circumstances  of  the  recitation. 
This  species  of  cadre,  or  frame,  afterwards  af- 
forded the  poem  its  name  of  '  The  Lay  of  the 
Last  Minstrel.' 

"  The  work  was  subsequently  shown  to  other 
friends  during  its  progress,  and  received  the 
imprimatur  of  Mr.  Francis  Jeffrey,  who  had 
been  already  for  some  time  distinguished  by 
his  critical  talent. 

"  The  poem,  being  once  licensed  by  the  critics 
as  fit  for  the  market,  was  soon  finished,  proceed- 
ing at  about  the  rate  of  a  canto  per  week.   There 


570 


NOTES. 


was,  indeed,  little  occasion  for  pause  or  hesita- 
tion, when  a  troublesome  rhyme  might  be  ac- 
commodated by  an  alteration  of  the  stanza,  or 
where  an  incorrect  measure  might  be  remedied 
by  a  variation  of  the  rhyme.  It  was  finally 
published  in  1805,  and  may  be  regarded  as  the 
first  work  in  which  the  writer,  who  has  been 
since  so  voluminous,  laid  his  claim  to  be  con- 
sidered as  an  original  author. 

"  The  book  was  published  by  Longman  and 
Company,  and  Archibald  Constable  and  Com- 
pany. The  principal  of  the  latter  firm  was 
then  commencing  that  course  of  bold  and  lib- 
eral industry  which  was  of  so  much  advantage 
to  his  country,  and  might  have  been  so  to  him- 
self, but  for  causes  which  it  is  needless  to  enter 
into  here.  The  work,  brought  out  on  the  usual 
terms  of  division  of  profits  between  the  author 
and  publishers,  was  not  long  after  purchased  by 
them  for  ^500,  to  which  Messrs.  Longman  and 
Company  afterwards  added  ^100,  in  their  own 
unsolicited  kindness,  in  consequence  of  the  un- 
common success  of  the  work.  It  was  hand- 
somely given  to  supply  the  loss  of  a  fine  horse, 
which  broke  down  suddenly  while  the  Author 
was  riding  with  one  of  the  worthy  publishers. 

"It  would  be  great  affectation  not  to  own 
frankly,  that  the  Author  expected  some  success 
from  *  The  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel.'  The 
attempt  to  return  to  a  more  simple  and  natural 
style  of  poetry  was  likely  to  be  welcomed,  at 
a  time  when  the  public' had  become  tired  of 
heroic  hexameters,  with  all  the  buckram  and 
binding  which  belong  to  them  of  later  days. 
But  whatever  might  have  been  his  expecta- 
tions, whether  moderate  or  unreasonable,  the 
result  left  them  far  behind,  for  among  those 
who  smiled  on  the  adventurous  Minstrel  were 
numbered  the  great  names  of  William  Pitt  and 
Charles  Fox.  Neither  was  the  extent  of  the 
sale  inferior  to  the  character  of  the  judges  who 
received  the  poem  with  approbation.  Upwards 
of  thirty  thousand  copies  of  the  Lay  were  dis- 
posed of  by  the  trade  ;  and  the  Author  had  to 
perform  a  task  difficult  to  human  vanity,  when 
called  upon  to  make  the  necessary  deductions 
from  his  own  merits,  in  a  calm  attempt  to 
account  for  his  popularity. 

"  A  few  additional  remarks  on  the  Author's 
literary  attempts  after  this  period,  will  be  found 
in  the  Introduction  to  the  Poem  of  Marmion. 

"Abbotsford,  April,  1830." 


CANTO    FIRST. 

i.'  Branksome  tower.  In  the  reign  of  James 
I..  Sir  William  Scott  of  Buccleuch,  chief  of  the 
clan  bearing  that  name,  exchanged,  with  Sir 
Thomas  [nglia  of  Manor,  the  estate  of  Mur- 
,  in  Lanarkshire,  for  one-half  of  the 
barony  of  Branksome,  or  Brankholm,  lying 
upon  the  Teviot,  about  three  miles  above 
Hawick.  He  was  probably  induced  to  this 
1    The  numbers  are  those  of  stanzas. 


transaction  from  the  vicinity  of  Branksome  to 
the  extensive  domain  which  he  possessed  in 
Ettrick  Forest  and  in  Teviotdale.  In  the  for- 
mer district  he  held  by  occupancy  the  estate  of 
Buccleuch,  and  much  of  the  forest  land  on  the 
river  Ettrick.  In  Teviotdale,  he  enjoyed  the 
barony  of  Eckford,  by  a  grant  from  Robert  II. 
to  his  ancestor,  Walter  Scott  of  Kirkurd,  for 
the  apprehending  of  Gilbert  Ridderford,  con- 
firmed by  Robert  III.,  3d  May,  1424.  Tradi- 
tion imputes  the  exchange  betwixt  Scott  and 
Inglis  to  a  conversation,  in  which  the  latter,  a 
man,  it  would  appear,  of  a  mild  and  forbearing 
nature,  complained  much  of  the  injuries  which 
he  was  exposed  to  from  the  English  Borderers, 
who  frequently  plundered  his  lands  of  Brank- 
some. Sir  William  Scott  instantly  offered  him 
the  estate  of  Murdiestone,  in  exchange  for  that 
which  was  subject  to  such  egregious  inconven- 
ience. When  the  bargain  was  completed,  he 
dryly  remarked  that  the  cattle  in  Cumberland 
were  as  good  as  those  of  Teviotdale ;  and  pro- 
ceeded to  commence  a  system  of  reprisals  upon 
the  English,  which  was  regularly  pursued  by 
his  successors.  In  the  next  reign,  James  II. 
granted  to  Sir  Walter  Scott  of  Branksome,  and 
to  Sir  David,  his  son,  the  remaining  half  of  the 
barony  of  Branksome,  to  be  held  in  blanche  for 
the  payment  of  a  red  rose.  The  cause  assigned 
for  the  grant  is,  their  brave  and  faithful  exer- 
tions in  favor  of  the  King  against  the  house  of 
Douglas,  with  whom  James  had  been  recently 
tugging  for  the  throne  of  Scotland. 

3.  Nine-and-twenty  knights,  etc.  The  ancient 
Barons  of  Buccleuch,  both  from  feudal  splendor 
and  from  their  frontier  situation,  retained  in 
their  household,  at  Branksome,  a  number  of 
gentlemen  of  their  own  name,  who  held  lands 
from  their  chief,  for  the  military  service  of 
watching  and  warding  his  castle. 

5.  Jedwood-axe.  "  Of  a  truth,"  says  Frois- 
sart,  "the  Scottish  cannot  boast  great  skill  with 
the  bow,  but  rather  bear  axes,  with  which,  in 
time  of  need,  they  give  heavy  strokes."  The 
Jedwood-axe  was  a  »sort  of  partisan,  used  by 
horsemen,  as  appears  from  the  arms  of  Jed- 
burgh, which  bear  a  cavalier  mounted,  and 
armed  with  this  weapon.  It  is  also  called  a 
Jedwood  or  Jeddart  staff. 

6.  They  watch,  etc.  Branksome  Castle  was 
continually  exposed  to  the  attacks  of  the  Eng- 
lish, both  from  its  situation  and  the  restless 
military  disposition  of  its  inhabitants,  who 
were  seldom  on  good  terms  with  their  neigh- 
bors. 

7.  Bards  long  shall  tell,  etc.  Sir  Walter  Scott 
of  Buccleuch  succeeded  to  his  grandfather,  Sir 
David,  in  1492.  He  was  a  brave  and  powerful 
baron,  and  Warden  of  the  West  Marches  of 
Scotland.  His  death  was  the  consequence  of  a 
feud  betwixt  the  Scotts  and  Kens,  which,  in 
spite  of  all  means  used  to  bring  about  an  agree- 
ment, raged  for  many  years  upon  the  Borders. 

8.  No  !  vainly  to  each  holy  shrine,  etc.  Among 
other  expedients  resorted  to  for  stanching  the 
feud  betwixt  the  Scotts  and  the  Kerrs,  there 
was  a  bond  executed  in  1529,  between  the  heads 


THE  LA  Y  OF   THE  LAST  MINSTREL. 


571 


of  each  clan,  binding  themselves  to  perform 
reciprocally  the  four  principal  pilgrimages  of 
Scotland  for  the  benefit  of  the  souls  of  those 
of  the  opposite  name  who  had  fallen  in  the 
quarrel.  This  indenture  is  printed  in  the  Min- 
strelsy of  the  Scottish  Border,  vol.  i.  But  either 
it  never  took  effect,  or  else  the  feud  was  re- 
newed shortly  afterwards. 

10.  Carr.  The  family  of  Ker,  Kerr,  or  Carr, 
was  very  powerful  on  the  Border.  Cessford 
Castle,  the  ancient  baronial  residence  of  the 
family,  is  situated  near  the  village  of  More- 
battle,  within  two  or  three  miles  of  the  Cheviot 
Hills.  It  has  been  a  place  of  great  strength 
and  consequence,  but  is  now  ruinous. 

10.  Lord  Cranstoun.  The  Cranstouns,  Lord 
Cranstoun,  are  an  ancient  Border  family,  whose 
chief  seat  was  at  Crailing,  in  Teviotdale.  They 
were  at  this  time  at  feud  with  the  clan  of  Scott ; 
for  it  appears  that  the  Lady  of  Buccleuch,  in 
1 557,  beset  the  Laird  of  Cranstoun,  seeking  his 
life.  Nevertheless,  the  same  Cranstoun,  or 
perhaps  his  son,  was  married  to  a  daughter  of 
the  same  lady. 

11.  Bethune's  line  of  Picardie.  The  Bethunes 
were  of  French  origin,  and  derived  their  name 
from  a  small  town  in  Artois.  There  were  sev- 
eral distinguished  families  of  the  Bethunes  in 
the  neighboring  province  of  Picardy ;  they 
numbered  among  their  descendants  the  cele- 
brated Due  de  Sully;  and  the  name  was  ac- 
counted among  the  most  noble  in  France,  while 
aught  noble  remained  in  that  country. 

11.  Padua.  Padua  was  long  supposed,  by 
the  Scottish  peasants,  to  be  the  principal 
school  of  necromancy. 

11.  His  form  no  darkening  shadow  traced,  etc. 
The  shadow  of  a  necromancer  is  independent 
of  the  sun.  Glycas  informs  us,  that  Simon 
Magus  caused  his  shadow  to  go  before  him, 
making  people  believe  it  was  an  attendant 
spirit  (Hey wood's  Hierarchie,  p.  475). 

12.  Till  to 'her  bidding,  etc.  The  Scottish 
vulgar,  without  having  any  very  defined  notion 
of  their  attributes,  believe  in  the  existence  of 
an  intermediate  class  of  spirits,  residing  in  the 
air  or  in  the  waters ;  to  whose  agency  they  as- 
cribe floods,  storms,  and  all  such  phenomena 
as  their  own  philosophy  cannot  readily  explain. 
They  are  supposed  to  interfere  in  the  affairs  of 
mortals,  sometimes  with  a  malevolent  purpose, 
and  sometimes  with  milder  views. 

19.  The  Crescents  and  the  Star.  The  arms  of 
the  Kerrs  of  Cessford  were,  Vert  on  a  chevron, 
betwixt  three  unicorns'  heads  erased  argent, 
three  mullets  sable;  crest,  a  unicorn's  head 
erased  proper.  The  Scotts  of  Buccleuch  bore, 
Or,  on  a  bend  azure ;  a  star  of  six  points  be- 
twixt two  crescents  of  the  first. 

20.  William  of  Deloraine.  The  lands  of 
Deloraine  are  joined  to  those  of  Buccleuch  in 
Ettrick  Forest.  They  were  immemorially  pos- 
sessed by  the  Buccleuch  family,  under  the 
strong  title  of  occupancy,  although  no  charter 
was  obtained  from  the  crown  until  1545. 

21.  By  wily  turns,  etc.  The  kings  and  heroes 
of  Scotland,  as  well  as  the  Border-riders,  were 


sometimes  obliged  to  study  how  to  evade  the 
pursuit  of  bloodhounds.  Barbour  informs  us 
that  Robert  Bruce  was  repeatedly  tracked  by 
sleuth-dogs.  On  one  occasion  he  escaped  by 
wading  a  bow-shot  down  a  brook,  and  ascend- 
ing into  a  tree  by  a  branch  which  overhung  the 
water;  thus,  leaving  no  trace  on  land  of  his 
footsteps,  he  baffled  the  scent. 

24.  Were  7  my  neck-verse,  etc.  Hairibee  was 
the  place  of  executing  the  Border  marauders 
at  Carlisle.  The  neck-verse  is  the  beginning  of 
the  51st  Psalm,  Miserere  mei,  etc.,  anciently 
read  by  criminals  claiming  the  benefit  of  clergy. 

25.  The  Moat-hill's  mound.  This  is  a  round 
artificial  mount  near  Hawick,  which,  from  its 
name  {Mot,  A.  S.  Concilium,  Conventus),  was 
probably  anciently  used  as  a  place  for  assem- 
bling a  national  council  of  the  adjacent  tribes. 
There  are  many  such  mounds  in  Scotland,  and 
they  are  sometimes,  but  rarely,  of  a  square  form. 

27.  Minto-crags.  A  romantic  assemblage  of 
cliffs,  which  rise  suddenly  above  the  vale  of 
Teviot,  in  the  immediate  vicinity  of  the  family- 
seat  from  which  Lord  Minto  takes  his  title.  A 
small  platform,  on  a  projecting  crag,  command- 
ing a  most  beautiful  prospect,  is  termed  Barn- 
hills'  Bed.  This  Barnhills  is  said  to  have  been 
a  robber,  or  outlaw.  There  are  remains  of  a 
strong  tower  beneath  the  rocks,  where  he  is 
supposed  to  have  dwelt,  and  from  which  he 
derived  his  name. 

30.  Halidon.  An  ancient  seat  of  the  Kerrs 
of  Cessford,  now  demolished.  About  a  quarter 
of  a  mile  to  the  northward  lay  the  field  of  battle 
betwixt  Buccleuch  and  Angus,  which  is  called 
to  this  day  the  Skirmish  Field. 

31.  Old  Metros'.  Melrose  Abbey.  The  an- 
cient and  beautiful  monastery  of  Melrose  was 
founded  by  King  David  I.  Its  ruins  afford 
the  finest  specimen  of  Gothic  architecture  and 
Gothic  sculpture  which  Scotland  can  boast. 
The  stone  of  which  it  is  built,  though  it  has 
resisted  the  weather  for  so  many  ages,  retains 
perfect  sharpness,  so  that  even  the  most  mi- 
nute ornaments  seem  as  entire  as  when  newly 
wrought. 


CANTO   SECOND. 

1.  St.  David''  ruined  pile.  David  I.  of  Scot- 
land purchased  the  reputation  of  sanctity  by 
founding,  and  liberally  endowing,  not  only  the 
monastery  of  Melrose,  but  those  of  Kelso,  Jed- 
burgh, and  many  others ;  which  led  to  the  well- 
known  observation  of  his  successor,  that  he  was 
a  sore  saint  for  the  crown. 

The  Buccleuch  family  were  great  benefactors 
to  the  Abbey  of  Melrose.  As  early  as  the  reign 
of  Robert  II.,  Robert  Scott,  Baron  of  Murdie- 
ston  and  Rankleburn  (now  Buccleuch),  gave  to 
the  monks  the  lands  of  Hinkery,  in  Ettrick  For- 
est, pro  salute  animce  sucb. 

10.  O  gallant  chief  of  Otterburne !  The  fa- 
mous and  desperate  battle  of  Otterburne  was 
fought  15th  August,  1388,  betwixt  Henry  Percy, 


572 


NOTES. 


called  Hotspur,  and  James,  Earl  of  Douglas. 
Both  these  renowned  champions  were  at  the 
head  of  a  chosen  body  of  troops,  and  they  were 
rivals  jn  military  fame.  The  issue  of  the  con- 
flict is  well  known  :  Percy  was  made  prisoner, 
and  the  Scots  won  the  day,  dearly  purchased  by 
the  death  of  their  gallant  general,  the  Earl  of 
Douglas,  who  was  slain  in  the  action.  He  was 
buried  at  Melrose  beneath  the  high  altar. 

10.  Dark  Knight  of  Liddesdale.  William  I 
Douglas,  called  the  Knight  of  Liddesdale,  j 
flourished  during  the  reign  of  David  II.,  and  j 
was  so  distinguished  by  his  valor  that  he  was  j 
called  the  Flower  of  Chivalry.  Nevertheless, 
he  tarnished  his  renown  by  the  cruel  murder  of  j 
Sir  Alexander  Ramsay  of  Dalhousie,  originally 
his  friend  and  brother  in  arms.  The  King  had 
conferred  upon  Ramsay  the  sheriffdom  of  Tevi- 
otdale,  to  which  Douglas  pretended  some  claim. 
In  revenge  of  this  preference,  the  Knight  of 
Liddesdale  came  down  upon  Ramsay,  while  he 
was  administering  justice  at  Hawick,  seized 
and  carried  him  off  to  his  remote  and  inacces- 
sible castle  of  Hermitage,  where  he  threw  his 
unfortunate  prisoner,  horse  and  man,  into  a 
dungeon,  and  left  him  to  perish  of  hunger.  It 
is  said  the  miserable  captive  prolonged  his  ex- 
istence for  several  days  by  the  corn  which  fell 
from  a  granary  above  the  vault  in  which  he  was 
confined.  So  weak  was  the  royal  authority, 
that  David,  although  highly  incensed  at  this 
atrocious  murder,  found  himself  obliged  to  ap- 
point the  Knight  of  Liddesdale  successor  to  his 
victim,  as  Sheriff  of  Teviotdale.  But  he  was 
soon  after  slain,  while  hunting  in  Ettrick  For- 
est, by  his  own  godson  and  chieftain,  William, 
Earl  of  Douglas,  in  revenge,  according  to  some 
authors,  of  Ramsay's  murder ;  although  a  pop- 
ular tradition,  preserved  in  a  ballad  quoted  by 
Godscroft,  and  some  parts  of  which  are  still 
preserved,  ascribes  the  resentment  of  the  Earl 
to  jealous] 

[3.  Michael  Scott.     Sir  Michael  Scott  of  Bal- 
wearie  flourished  during  the  thirteenth  century, 
and  was  one  of  the  ambassadors  sent  to  bring 
the  Maid  of  Norway  to  Scotland  upon  the  death 
of  Alexander  III.     By  a  poetical  anachronism, 
he  is  here  placed  in  a  later  era.     He  was  a  man 
of  much   learning,  chiefly  acquired  in  foreign 
countries.     He  wrote  a  commentary  upon  Aris- 
totle, printed  at  Venice  in  1496:  and  several 
es  upon  natural  philosophy,  from  which 
he  appear-   to   have  been  addicted  to  the  ab- 
I    judicial  astrology,   alchemy, 
physiognomy,    and    chiromancy.     'Hence    he 
among   his  contemporaries  for  a  skil- 
lul   magician.     Dempster  informs  us,  that  he 
remembers  to  have  heard  in  his  youth  that  the 
magic  books  of  Michael  s< .  »t t  were  still  in  ex- 
,  but  could  not  be  opened  without  dan- 
ii  account  of  the  malignant  fiends  who 
thereby  invoked.     Tradition  varies  con- 
cerning the  place  of  his  burial;  some  contend 
i    lme  Coltrame,  in   Cumberland,  others 
foi    Metro*     Abbey.      But   all  agree  that  his 
books  of  in  interred  in  his  grave,  or 

vent  where  he  died. 


13.  Salamanca's  cave.  Spain,  from  the  relics, 
doubtless,  of  Arabian  learning  and  superstition, 
was  accounted  a  favorite  residence  of  magi- 
cians. Pope  Sylvester,  who  actually  imported 
from  Spain  the  use  of  the  Arabian  numerals, 
was  supposed  to  have  learned  there  the  magic 
for  which  he  was  stigmatized  by  the  ignorance 
of  his  age.  There  were  public  schools  where 
magic,  or  rather  the  sciences  supposed  to  in- 
volve its  mysteries,  were  regularly  taught,  at 
Toledo,  Seville,  and  Salamanca.  In  the  latter 
city,  they  were  held  in  a  deep  cavern  ;  the 
mouth  of  which  was  walled  up  by  Queen  Isa- 
bella, wife  of  King  Ferdinand. 

13.  The  bells  would  ring  in  Notre  Da?ne. 
Michael  Scott  was  chosen,  it  is  said,  to  go 
upon  an  embassy,  to  obtain  from  the  King  of 
France  satisfaction  for  certain  piracies  com- 
mitted by  his  subjects  upon  those  of  Scotland. 
Instead  of  preparing  a  new  equipage  and  splen- 
did retinue,  the  ambassador  retreated  to  his 
study,  opened  his  book  and  evoked  a  fiend  in 
the  shape  of  a  huge  black  horse,  mounted  upon 
his  back,  and  forced  him  to  fly  through  the  air 
towards  France.  As  they  crossed  the  sea,  the 
devil  insidiously  asked  his  rider  what  it  was 
that  the  old  women  of  Scotland  muttered  at 
bed-time.  A  less  experienced  wizard  might 
have  answered  that  it  was  the  Pater  Noster, 
which  would  have  licensed  the  devil  to  precipi- 
tate him  from  his  back.  But  Michael  sternly 
replied,  "  What  is  that  to  thee  ?  Mount,  Di- 
abolus,  and  fly !  "  When  he  arrived  at  Paris, 
he  tied  his  horse  to  the  gate  of  the  palace,  en- 
tered, and  boldly  delivered  his  message.  An 
ambassador,  with  so  little  of  the  pomp  and  cir- 
cumstance of  diplomacy,  was  not  received  with 
much  respect,  and  the  king  was  about  to  return 
a  contemptuous  refusal  to  his  demand,  when 
Michael  besought  him  to  suspend  his  resolu- 
tion till  he  had  seen  his  horse  stamp  three 
times.  The  first  stamp  shook  every  steeple  in 
Paris,  and  caused  all  the  bells  to'ring ;  the  sec- 
ond threw  down  three  of  the  towers  of  the  pal- 
ace; and  the  infernal  steed  had  lifted  his  lioof 
to  give  the  third  stamp,  when  the  king  rather 
chose  to  dismiss  Michael,  with  the  most  ample 
concessions,  than  to  stand  to  the  probable  con- 
sequences. 

13.  Eildon  Hills.  Michael  Scott  was,  once 
upon  a  time,  much  embarrassed  by  a  spirit,  for 
whom  he  was  under  the  necessity  of  finding 
constant  employment.  He  commanded  him  to 
build  a  cauld,  or  dam-head,  across  the  Tweed 
at  Kelso;  it  was  accomplished  in  one  night, 
and  still  does  honor  to  the  infernal  architect. 
Michael  next  ordered  that  Eildon  Hill,  which 
was  then  a  uniform  cone,  should  be  divided 
into  three.  Another  night  was  sufficient  to  part 
its  summit  into  the  three  picturesque  peaks 
which  it  now  bears.  At  length  the  enchanter 
conquered  this  indefatigable  demon,  by  em- 
ploying him  in  the  hopeless  and  endless  task 
of  making  ropes  out  of  sea-sand. 

17.  That  lamp,  etc.  Baptista  Porta,  and 
other  authors  who  treat  of  natural  magic,  talk 
much  of  eternal  lamps,  pretended  to  have  been 


THE  LA  Y  OF  THE  LAST  MINSTREL. 


573 


found  burning  in  ancient  sepulchres.  One  of 
these  perpetual  lamps  is  said  to  have  been  dis- 
covered in  the  tomb  of  Tulliola,  the  daughter 
of  Cicero.  The  wick  was  supposed  to  be  com- 
posed of  asbestos.  Kircher  enumerates  three 
different  recipes  for  constructing  such  lamps, 
and  wisely  concludes  that  the  thing  is  never- 
theless impossible. 

31.  The  Baron's  dwarf.  The  idea  of  Lord 
Cranstoun's  Goblin  Page  is  taken  from  a  being 
called  Gilpin  Horner,  who  appeared,  and  made 
some  stay,  at  a  farmhouse  among  the  Border- 
mountains.  An  old  man,  of  the  name  of  An- 
derson, who  was  born,  and  lived  all  his  life,  at 
Todshaw-hill,  in  Eskedale-muir,  said  that  two 
men,  late  in  the  evening,  when  it  was  growing 
dark,  heard  a  voice,  at  some  distance,  crying, 
"  Tint !  tint !  tint !  " x  One  of  the  men,  named 
Moffat,  called  out,  "What  deil  has  tint  you? 
Come  here."  Immediately  a  creature,  of  some- 
thing like  a  human  form,  appeared.  It  was 
surprisingly  little,  distorted  in  features,  and  mis- 
shapen in  limbs.  As  soon  as  the  two  men  could 
see  it  plainly,  they  ran  home  in  a  great  fright, 
imagining  they  had  met  with  some  goblin.  By 
the  way  Moffat  fell,  and  it  ran  over  him,  and 
was  home  at  the  house  as  'soon  as  either  of 
them,  and  staid  there  a  long  time  ;  but  it  is  not 
stated  how  long.  It  was  real  flesh  and  blood, 
and  ate  and  drank,  was  fond  of  cream,  and, 
when  it  could  get  at  it,  would  destroy  a  great 
deal.  It  seemed  a  mischievous  creature  ;  and 
any  of  the  children  whom  it  could  master,  it 
would  beat  and  scratch  without  mercy.  It  was 
once  abusing  a  child  belonging  to  the  same 
Moffat,  who  had  been  so  frightened  by  its  first 
appearance ;  and  he,  in  a  passion,  struck  it  so 
violent  a  blow  upon  the  side  of  the  head,  that 
it  tumbled  upon  the  ground;  but  it  was  not 
stunned;  for  it  set  up  its  head  directly,  and  ex- 
claimed, "Ah  hah,  Will  o'  Moffat,  you  strike 
sair  !  "  (viz.,  sore.)  After  it  had  staid  there  long, 
one  evening,  when  the  women  were  milking 
the  cows  in  the  loan,  it  was  playing  among  the 
children  near  by  them,  when  suddenly  they 
heard  a  loud  shrill  voice  cry,  three  times,  "  Gil- 
pin Homer  !  "  It  started,  and  said,  "  That  is 
me,  I  must  away"  and  instantly  disappeared, 
and  was  never  heard  of  more.  Besides  con- 
stantly repeating  the  word  tint!  tint!  Gilpin 
Horner  was  often  heard  to  call  upon  Peter  Ber- 
tram, or  Be-te-ram,  as  he  pronounced  the  word ; 
and  when  the  shrill  voice  called  Gilpin  Horner, 
he  immediately  acknowledged  it  was  the  sum- 
mons of  the  said  Peter  Bertram,  who  seems 
therefore  to  have  been  the  devil  who  had  tint, 
or  lost,  the  little  imp.  As  much  as  has  been 
objected  to  Gilpin  Horner  on  account  of  his 
being  supposed  rather  a  device  of  the  author 
than  a  popular  superstition,  I  can  only  say,  that 
no  legend  which  I  ever  heard  seemed  to  be 
more  universally  credited,  and  that  many  per- 
sons of  very  good  rank  and  considerable  in- 
formation are  well  known  to  repose  absolute 
faith  in  the  tradition. 

1    Tint  signifies  lost. 


CANTO    THIRD. 

4.  The  crane  on  the  Baron's  crest.  The  crest 
of  the  Cranstouns,  in  allusion  to  their  name,  is 
a  crane  dormant,  holding  a  stone  in  his  foot, 
with  an  emphatic  Border  motto,  Thou  shall  want 
ere  I  want. 

8.  A  book-bosomed  priest.  At  Unthank,  two 
miles  N.  E.  from  the  church  of  Ewes,  there 
are  the  ruins  of  a  chapel  for  divine  service,  in 
time  of  Popery.  There  is  a  tradition,  that  friars 
were  wont  to  come  from  Melrose,  or  Jedburgh, 
to  baptize  and  marry  in  this  parish  ;  and  from 
being  in  use  to  carry  the  mass-book  in  their 
bosoms,  they  were  called,  by  the  inhabitants, 
Book-abosomes. 

9.  Glamour.  Glamour,  in  the  legends  of 
Scottish  superstition,  means  the  magic  power 
of  imposing  on  the  eyesight  of  the  spectators, 
so  that  the  appearance  of  an  object  shall  be 
totally  different  from  the  reality.  The  trans- 
formation of  Michael  Scott  by  the  witch  of 
Falsehope,  already  mentioned,  was  a  genuine 
operation  of  glamour.  To  a  similar  charm  the 
ballad  of  Johnny  Fa?  imputes  the  fascination 
of  the  lovely  Countess,  who  eloped  with  that 
gypsy  leader :  — 

"  Sae  soon  as  they  saw  her  weel-far'd  face, 
They  cast  the  glamour  o'er  her." 

13.  The  running  stream  dissolved  the  spell.  It 
is  a  firm  article  of  popular  faith,  that  no  en- 
chantment can  subsist  in  a  living  stream.  Nay, 
if  you  can  interpose  a  brook  betwixt  you  and 
witches,  spectres,  or  even  fiends,  you  are  in  per- 
fect safety.  Burns's  inimitable  Tarn  0'  Shanter 
turns  entirely  upon  such  a  circumstance.  The 
belief  seems  to  be  of  antiquity.  Brompton  in- 
forms us  that  certain  Irish  wizards  could,  by 
spells,  convert  earthen  clods  or  stones  into  fat 
pigs,  which  they  sold  in  the  market,  but  which 
always  reassumed  their  proper  form  when 
driven  by  the  deceived  purchaser  across  a  run- 
ning stream. 

17.  He  never  counted  him  a  man.  Imitated 
from  Drayton's  account  of  Robin  Hood  and 
his  followers  (Polyolbion,  Song  26) :  — 

"A  hundred  valiant  men  had  this  brave  Robin  Hood. 
Still  ready  at  his  call,  that  bowmen  were  right  good  : 
All  clad  in  Lincoln  green,  with  caps  of  red  and  blue, 
His  fellow's  winded  horn  not  one  of  them  but  knew. 
When  setting  to  their  lips  their  bugles  shrill, 
The  warbling  echoes  waked  from  every  dale  and  hill ; 
Their  bauldrics  set  with  studs  athwart  their  shoulders  cast, 
To  which  under  their  arms  their  sheafs  were  buckled  fast, 
A  short  sword  at  their  belt,  a  buckler  scarce  a  span. 
Who  struck  below  the  knee  not  counted  then  a  man. 
All  madeof  Spanish  yew,  their  bows  were  wondrous  strong, 
They  not  an  arrow  drew  but  was  a  clothyard  long. 
Of  archery  they  had  the  very  perfect  craft, 
With  broad  arrow,  or  but,  or  prick,  or  roving  shaft." 

To  wound  an  antagonist  in  the  thigh,  or  leg, 
was  reckoned  contrary  to  the  law  of  arms. 

25.  The  beacon-blaze  of  war.  The  Border  bea- 
cons, from  their  number  and  position,  formed  a 
sort  of  telegraphic  communication  with  Edin- 
burgh. The  Act  of  Parliament,  1455,  c.  48, 
directs  that  one  bale  or  fagot  shall  be  warning 


574 


NOTES. 


of  the  approach  of  the  English  in  any  manner ; 
two  bales,  that  they  are  coming  indeed;  four 
bales  blazing  beside  each  other,  that  the  enemy 
are  in  great  force. 

29.  Cairn.  The  cairns,  or  piles  of  loose 
stones,  which  crown  the  summit  of  most  of 
our  Scottish  hills,  and  are  found  in  other  re- 
markable situations,  seem  usually,  though  not 
universally,  to  have  been  sepulchral  monu- 
ments. Six  fiat  stones  are  commonly  found 
in  the  centre,  forming  a  cavity  of  greater  or 
smaller  dimensions,  in  which  an  urn  is  often 
placed.  The  author  is  possessed  of  one,  dis- 
covered beneath  an  immense  cairn  at  Rough- 
lee,  in  Liddesdale.  It  is  of  the  most  barbarous 
construction ;  the  middle  of  the  substance  alone 
having  been  subjected  to  the  fire,  over  which, 
when  hardened,  the  artist  had  laid  an  inner  and 
outer  coat  of  unbaked  clay,  etched  with  some 
very  rude  ornaments ;  his  skill  apparently  being 
inadequate  to  baking  the  vase,  when  completely 
finished.  The  contents  were  bones  and  ashes,- 
and  a  quantity  of  beads  made  of  coal.  This 
seems  to  have  been  a  barbarous  imitation  of 
the  Roman  fashion  of  sepulture. 


CANTO  FOURTH. 

2.  Great  Dundee.  The  Viscount  of  Dundee, 
slain  in  the  battle  of  Killiecrankie. 

3.  For  pathless  marsh,  etc.  The  morasses 
were  the  usual  refuge  of  the  Border  herdsmen, 
on  the  approach  of  an  English  army.  Caves, 
hewed  in  the  most  dangerous  and  inaccessible 
places,  also  afforded  an  occasional  retreat. 
Such  caverns  may  be  seen  in  the  precipitous 
banks  of  the  Teviot  at  Sunlaws,  upon  the  Ale 
at  Ancram,  upon  the  Jed  at  Hundalee,  and  in 
many  other  places  upon  the  Border.  The  banks 
of  the  Esk  at  Gorton  and  Hawthornden  are 
hollowed  intc  similar  recesses.  But  even  these 
dreary  dens  were  not  always  secure  places  of 
concealment. 

4.  Watt  Tinlinn.  This  person  was,  in  my 
younger  days,  the  theme  of  many  a  fireside  tale. 
He  was  a  retainer  of  the  Buccleuch  family,  and 
held  for  his  Border  service  a  small  tower  on 
the  frontiers  of  Liddesdale.  Watt  was,  by  pro- 
fession, zsutor,  but,  by  inclination  and  practice, 
an  archer  and  warrior.  Upon  one  occasion,  the 
Captain  of  Newcastle,  military  governor  of  that 
wild  district  of  Cumberland,  is  said  to  have 
made  an  incursion  into  Scotland,  in  which  he 
was  defeated  and  forced  to  fly.  Watt  Tinlinn 
pursued  him  closely  through  a  dangerous  mo- 

1  he  captain,  however,  gained  the  firm 
ground;  and  seeing  Tinlinn  dismounted,  and 
floundering  in  the  bog,  used  these  words  of 
insult  :  "  Sutor  Watt,  ye  cannot  sew  your  boots; 
'•  I  creak  | ,  and  the  seams  rive."  "  If 
I  cannot  sew,"  retorted  Tinlinn,  discharging  a 
shaft,  which  nailed  the  captain's  thigh  to  his 
saddle,  "  if  I  cannot  sew,  I  can  yerk."  * 

1  Yerk,  to  twitch,  as  shoemakers  do  in  securing  the 
stitches  of  their  work. 


5.  Of  silver  brooch  and  bracelet  proud.  As 
the  Borderers  were  indifferent  about  the  furni- 
ture of  their  habitations,  so  much  exposed  to 
be  burned  and  plundered,  they  were  propor- 
tionally anxious  to  display  splendor  in  deco- 
rating and  ornamenting  their  females. 

6.  Belted  Will  Howard.  Lord  William  How- 
ard, third  son  of  Thomas,  Duke  of  Norfolk,  suc- 
ceeded to  Naworth  Castle,  and  a  large  domain 
annexed  to  it,  in  right  of  his  wife  Elizabeth, 
sister  of  George  Lord  Dacre,  who  died  without 
heirs-male,  in  the  nth  of  Queen  Elizabeth.  By 
a  poetical  anachronism,  he  is  introduced  into 
the  romance  a  few  years  earlier  than  he  actually 
flourished.  He  was  warden  of  the  Western 
Marches  ;  and,  from  the  rigor  with  which  he 
repressed  the  Border  excesses,  the  name  of 
Belted  Will  Howard  is  still  famous  in  our  tra- 
ditions. 

6.  Lord  Dacre.  The  well-known  name  of 
Dacre  is  derived  from  the  exploits  of  one  of 
their  ancestors  at  the  siege  of  Acre,  or  Ptole- 
mais,  under  Richard  Coeur-de-Lion. 

6.  The  German  hackhit-men.  In  the  wars 
with  Scotland,  Henry  VIII.  and  his  successors 
employed  numerous  bands  of  mercenary  troops. 
At  the  battle  of  Pinky,  there  were  in  the  Eng- 
lish army  six  hundred  hackbutters  on  foot,  and 
two  hundred  on  horseback,  composed  chiefly 
of  foreigners.  From  the  battle-pieces  of  the 
ancient  Flemish  painters,  we  learn,  that  the 
Low  Country  and  German  soldiers  marched  to 
an  assault  with  their  right  knees  bared.  And 
we  may  also  observe,  in  such  pictures,  the  ex- 
travagance to  which  they  carried  the  fashion  of 
ornamenting  their  dress  with  knots  of  ribbon. 

8.  Thirlestane.  Sir  John  Scott  of  Thirlestane 
flourished  in  the  reign  of  James  V.,  and  pos- 
sessed the  estates  of  Thirlestane,  Gamescleuch, 
etc.,  lying  upon  the  river  of  Ettrick,  and  extend- 
ing to  St.  Mary's  Loch,  at  the  head  of  Yarrow. 

!  It  appears  that  when  James  had  assembled  his 
nobility,  and  their  feudal  followers,  at  Fala, 
with  the  purpose  of  invading  England,  and  was, 
as  is  well  known,  disappointed  by  the  obstinate 
refusal  of  his  peers,  this  baron  alone  declared 
himself  ready  to  follow  the  King  wherever  he 
should  lead.  In  memory  of  his  fidelity,  James 
granted  to  his  family  a  charter  of  arms,  enti- 
tling them  to  bear  a  border  of  fleurs-de-luce 
similar  to  the  tressure  in  the  royal  arms,  with 
a  bundle  of  spears  for  the  crest ;  motto,  Ready, 
aye  ready. 

9.  An  aged  knight,  etc.  The  family  of  Har- 
den are  descended  from  a  younger  son  of  the 
Laird  of  Buccleuch,  who  flourished  before  the 
estate  of  Murdieston  was  acquired  by  the  mar- 
riage of  one  of  those  chieftains  with  the  heiress, 
in  1296.  Walter  Scott  of  Harden,  who  flour- 
ished during  the  reign  of  Queen  Mary,  was  a 
renowned  Border  freebooter.  His  castle  was 
situated  upon  the  very  brink  of  a  dark  and  pre- 
cipitous dell,  through  which  a  scanty  rivulet 
steals  to  meet  the  Borthwick.  In  the  recess  of 
this  glen  he  is  said  to  have  kept  his  spoil,  which 
served  for  the  daily  maintenance  of  his  retain- 
ers, until  the  production  of   a   pair   of   clean 


THE  LAY  OF  THE  LAST  MINSTREL. 


575 


spurs,  in  a  covered  dish,  announced  to  the 
hungry  band  that  they  must  ride  for  a  supply 
of  provisions.  He  was  married  to  Mary  Scott, 
daughter  of  Philip  Scott  of  Dryhope,  and  called 
in  song  the  Flower  of  Yarrow.  He  possessed 
a  very  extensive  estate,  which  was  divided 
among  his  five  sons. 

10.  Scotts  of  Eskdale,  etc.  In  this  and  the 
following  stanzas,  some  account  is  given  of  the 
mode  in  which  the  property  in  the  valley  of 
Esk  was  transferred  from  the  Beattisons,  its 
ancient  possessors,  to  the  name  of  Scott.  It  is 
needless  to  repeat  the  circumstances,  which  are 
given  in  the  poem  literally  as  they  have  been 
preserved  by  tradition.  Lord  Maxwell,  in  the 
latter  part  of  the  sixteenth  century,  took  upon 
himself  the  title  of  Earl  of  Morton.  The  de- 
scendants of  Beattison  of  Woodkerrick,  who 
aided  the  earl  to  escape  from  his  disobedient 
vassals,  continued  to  hold  these  lands  within 
the  memory  of  man,  and  were  the  only  Beatti- 
sons who  had  property  in  the  dale.  The  old 
people  give  locality  to  the  story  by  showing  the 
Galliard's  Haugh,  the  place  where  Buccleuch's 
men  were  concealed,  etc. 

13.  Bellenden  is  situated  near  the  head  of 
Borthwick  Water,  and  being  in  the  centre  of  the 
possessions  of  the  Scotts,  was  frequently  used  as 
their  place  of  rendezvous  and  gathering  word. 

21.  A  gauntlet  on  a  spear.  A  glove  upon  a 
lance  was  the  emblem  of  faith  among  the  an- 
cient Borderers,  who  were  wont,  when  any  one 
broke  his  word,  to  expose  this  emblem,  and 
proclaim  him  a  faithless  villain  at  the  first 
Border  meeting.  This  ceremony  was  much 
dreaded. 

24.  March-treason  pain.  Several  species  of 
offences,  peculiar  to  the  Border,  constituted 
what  was  called  march-treason.  Among  others, 
was  the  crime  of  riding,  or  causing  to  ride, 
against  the  opposite  country  during  the  time  of 
truce. 

26.  Will  cleanse  him  by  oath.  In  dubious 
cases,  the  innocence  of  Border  criminals  was 
occasionally  referred  to  their  own  oath.  The 
form  of  excusing  bills,  or  indictments,  by  Bor- 
der-oath, ran  thus :  "You  shall  swear  by  heaven 
above  you,  hell  beneath  you,  by  your  part  of 
Paradise,  by  all  that  God  made  in  six  days  and 
seven  nights,  and*  by  God  himself,  you  are 
whart  out  sackless  of  art,  part,  way,  witting, 
ridd,  kenning,  having,  or  recetting  of  any  of 
the  goods  and  cattels  named  in  this  bill.  So 
help  you  God." 

26.  Knighthood  he  took,  etc.  The  dignity  of 
knighthood,  according  to  the  original  institution, 
had  this  peculiarity,  that  it  did  not  flow  from 
the  monarch,  but  could  be  conferred  by  one  who 
himself  possessed  it,  upon  any  squire  who,  after 
due  probation,  was  found  to  merit  the  honor  of 
chivalry.  Latterly,  this  power  was  confined  to 
generals,  who  were  wont  to  create  knights  ban- 
nerets after  or  before  an  engagement.  Even 
so  late  as  the  reign  of  Queen  Elizabeth,  Essex 
highly  offended  his  jealous  sovereign  by  the 
indiscriminate  exertion  of  this  privilege. 

26.  Ancram  ford.      The   battle   of   Ancram 


Moor,  or  Penielheuch,  was  fought  A.  D.  1545. 
The  English,  commanded  by  Sir  Ralph  Evers, 
and  Sir  Brian  Latoun,  were  totally  routed,  and 
both  their  leaders  slain  in  the  action.  The 
Scottish  army  was  commanded  by  Archibald 
Douglas,  Earl  of  Angus,  assisted  by  the  Laird 
of  Buccleuch,  and  Norman  Lesley. 

30.  The  Blanche  Lion.  This  was  the  cogni- 
zance of  the  noble  house  of  Howard  in  all  its 
branches.  The  crest,  or  bearing,  of  a  warrior 
was  often  used  as  a  nom  de  guerre.  Thus 
Richard  III.  acquired  his  well-known  epithet, 
The  Boar  of  York.  In  the  violent  satire  on 
Cardinal  Wolsey,  written  by  Roy,  the  Duke  of 
Buckingham  is  called  the  Beautiful  Swan,  and 
the  Duke  of  Norfolk,  or  Earl  of  Surrey,  the 
White  Lion. 

34.  The  jovial  harper.  The  person  here  al- 
luded to,  is  one  of  our  ancient  Border  min- 
strels, called  Rattling  Roaring  Willie.  This 
sobriquet  was  probably  derived  from  his  bully- 
ing disposition ;  being,  it  would  seem,  such 
a  roaring  boy  as  is  frequently  mentioned  in 
old  plajs.  While  drinking  at  Newmill,  upon 
Teviot,  about  five  miles  above  Hawick,  Willie 
chanced  to  quarrel  with  one  of  his  own  profes- 
sion, who  was  usually  distinguished  by  the  odd 
name  of  Sweet  Milk,  from  a  place  on  Rule 
Water  so  called.  They  retired  to  a  meadow 
on  the  opposite  side  of  the  Teviot,  to  decide 
the  contest  with  their  swords,  and  Sweet  Milk 
was  killed  on  the  spot.  A  thorn-tree  marks 
the  scene  of  the  murder,  which  is  still  called 
Sweet  Milk  Thorn.  Willie  was  taken  and  exe- 
cuted at  Jedburgh,  bequeathing  his  name  to  the 
beautiful  Scotch  air,  called  "  Rattling  Roaring 
Willie." 

34.  Black  Lord  Archibald's  battle-laws.  The 
most  ancient  collection  of  Border  regulations. 


CANTO    FIFTH. 

4.  The  Bloody  Heart,  etc.  The  chief  of  this 
potent  race  of  heroes,  about  the  date  of  the 
poem,  was  Archibald  Douglas,  seventh  Earl  of 
Angus,  a  man  of  great  courage  and  activity. 
The  Bloody  Heart  was  the  well-known  cogni- 
zance of  the  House  of  Douglas,  assumed  from 
the  time  of  good  Lord  James,  to  whose  care 
Robert  Bruce  committed  his  heart,  to  be  car- 
ried to  the  Holy  Land. 

4.  The  Seven  Spears,  etc.  Sir  David  Home, 
of  Wedderburn,  who  was  slain  in  the  fatal 
battle  of  Flodden,  left  seven  sons  by  his  wife 
Isabel.  They  were  called  the  Seven  Spears 
of  Wedderburn. 

4.  Clarence's  Plantagenet.  At  the  battle  of 
Beauge,  in  France.  Thomas,  Duke  of  Clarence, 
brother  to  Henry  V.,  was  unhorsed  by  Sir  John 
Swinton  of  Swinton,  who  distinguished  him  by 
a  coronet  set  with  precious  stones,  which  he 
wore  around  his  helmet.  The  family  of  Swin- 
ton is  one  of  the  most  ancient  in  Scotland,  and 
produced  many  celebrated  warriors. 


576 


NOTES. 


4.  Beneath  the  crest,  etc.  The  Earls  of  Home, 
as  descendants  of  the  Dunbars,  ancient  Earls  of 
March,  carried  a  lion  rampant,  argent ;  but,  as 
a  difference,  changed  the  color  of  the  shield 
from  gules  to  vert,  in  allusion  to  Greenlaw, 
their  ancient  possession.  The  slogan,  or  war- 
cry,  of  this  powerful  family,  was,  "  A  Home  !  a 
Home !  "  It  was  anciently  placed  in  an  escrol 
above  the  crest.  The  helmet  is  armed  with  a 
lion's  head  erased  gules,  with  a  cap  of  state 
gules,  turned  up  ermine.  The  Hepburns,  a 
powerful  family  in  East  Lothian,  were  usually 
in  close  alliance  with  the  Homes.  The  chief  of 
this  clan  was  Hepburn,  Lord  of  Hailes,  a  family 
which  terminated  in  the  too  famous  Earl  of 
Bothwell. 

6.  The  football  play.  The  football  was  an- 
ciently a  very  favorite  sport  all  through  Scot- 
land, but  especially  upon  the  Borders.  Sir 
John  Carmichael  of  Carmichael,  Warden  of 
the  Middle  Marches,  was  killed  in  1600  by  a 
band  of  the  Armstrongs,  returning  from  a  foot- 
ball match.  Sir  Robert  Carey,  in  his  Memoirs, 
mentions  a  great  meeting,  appointed  by  the 
Scotch  riders  to  be  held  at  Kelso  for  the  pur- 
pose of  playing  at  football,  but  which  terminated 
in  an  incursion  upon  England. 

7.  '  Twixt  truce  and  war,  etc.  Notwithstand- 
ing the  constant  wars  upon  the  Borders,  and 
the  occasional  cruelties  which  marked  the  mu- 
tual inroads,  the  inhabitants  on  either  side  do 
not  appear  to  have  regarded  each  other  with 
that  violent  and  personal  animosity,  which 
might  have  been  expected.  On  the  contrary, 
like  the  outposts  of  hostile  armies,  they  often 
carried  on  something  resembling  friendly  inter- 
course, even  in  the  middle  of  hostilities ;  and 
it  is  evident,  from  various  ordinances  against 
trade  and  intermarriages,  between  English  and 
Scottish  Borderers,  that  the  governments  of 
both  countries  were  jealous  of  their  cherishing 
too  intimate  a  connexion. 

In  the  29th  stanza  of  this  canto,  there  is  an 
attempt  to  express  some  of  the  mixed  feelings 
with  which  the  Borderers  on  each  side  were  led 
to  regard  their  neighbors. 

29.  Cheer  the  dark  bloodhound,  etc.  The  pur- 
suit of  Border  marauders  was  followed  by  the 
injured  party  and  his  friends  with  bloodhounds 
and  bugle-horn,  and  was  called  the  hot-trod.  He 
was  entitled,  if  his  dog  could  trace  the  scent,  to 
follow  the  invaders  into  the  opposite  kingdom; 
a  privilege  which  often  occasioned  bloodshed. 
The  breed  u;is  kept  up  by  the  Buccleuch  family 
on  their  Border  estates  till  within  the  eighteenth 
.   ;ry. 


\T<>    SIXTH. 

5.  She  wrought  not,  etc.  Popular  belief,  though 
contrary  to  the  doctrines  of  the  Church,  made  a 
favorable  distinction  betwixt  magicians  and  ne- 
cromancers, or  wizards ;  the  former  were  sup- 
to  command  the  evil  spirits,  and  the  latter 


to  serve,  or  at  least  to  be  in  league  and  compact 
with,  those  enemies  of  mankind.  The  arts  of 
subjecting  the  demons  were  manifold  ;  some- 
times the  fiends  were  actually  swindled  by  the 
magicians. 

5.  A  tnerlin.  A  merlin,  or  sparrow-hawk,  was 
actually  carried  by  ladies  of  rank,  as  a  falcon 
was,  in  time  of  peace,  the  constant  attendant  of 
a  knight  or  baron.  Godscroft  relates,  that  when 
Mary  of  Lorraine  was  regent,  she  pressed  the 
Earl  of  Angus  to  admit  a  royal  garrison  into 
his  Castle  of  Tantallon.  To  this  he  returned 
no  direct  answer ;  but,  as  if  apostrophizing  a 
goshawk,  which  sat  on  his  wrist,  and  which  he 
was  feeding  during  the  Queen's  speech,  he  ex- 
claimed, "  The  devil 's  in  this  greedy  glede,  she 
will  never  be  full."  Barclay  complains  of  the 
common  and  indecent  practice  of  bringing 
hawks  and  hounds  into  churches. 

6.  Peacock's  gilded  train.  The  peacock,  it  is 
well  known,  was  considered,  during  the  times 
of  chivalry,  not  merely  as  an  exquisite  delicacy 
but  as  a  dish  of  peculiar  solemnity.  After  being 
roasted,  it  was  again  decorated  with  its  plu- 
mage, and  a  sponge,  dipped  in  lighted  spirits  of 
wine,  was  placed  in  its  bill.  When  it  was  in- 
troduced on  days  of  grand  festival,  it  was  the 
signal  for  the  adventurous  knights  to  take  upon 
them  vows  to  do  some  deed  of  chivalry,  "  before 
the  peacock  and  the  ladies." 

The  boar's  head  was  also  a  usual  dish  of  feu- 
dal splendor.  In  Scotland  it  was  sometimes 
surrounded  with  little  banners,  displaying  the 
colors  and  achievements  of  the  baron  at  whose 
board  it  was  served. 

6.  From  St.  Mary's  wave.  There  are  often 
nights  of  swans  upon  St.  Mary's  Lake,  at  the 
head  of  the  river  Yarrow. 

7.  Stout  Hunthill.  The  Rutherfords  of  Hunt- 
hill  were  an  ancient  race  of  Border  Lairds, 
whose  names  occur  in  history,  sometimes  as 
defending  the  frontier  against  the  English, 
sometimes  as  disturbing  the  peace  of  their  own 
country.  Dickon  Draw-the-sword  was  son  to 
the  ancient  warrior,  called  in  tradition  the  Cock 
of  Hunthill,  remarkable  for  leading  into  battle 
nine  sons,  gallant  warriors,  all  sons  of  the  aged 
champion. 

7.  Bit  his  glove.  To  bite  the  thumb,  or  the 
glove,  seems  not  to  have  been  considered,  upon 
the  Border,  as  a  gesture  of  contempt,  though  so 
used  by  Shakespeare,  but  as  a  pledge  of  mortal 
revenge.  It  is  yet  remembered  that  a  young 
gentleman  of  Teviotdale,  on  the  morning  after 
a  hard  drinking-bout,  observed  that  he  had  bit- 
ten his  glove.  He  instantly  demanded  of  his 
companion,  with  whom  he  had  quarrelled? 
And,  learning  that  he  had  had  words  with 
one  of  the  party,  insisted  on  instant  satisfac- 
tion, asserting  that  though  he  remembered 
nothing  of  the  dispute,  yet  he  was  sure  he 
never  would  have  bit  his  glove  unless  he  had 
received  some  unpardonable  insult.  He  fell 
in  the  duel,  which  was  fought  near  Selkirk,  in 
1721. 

8.  Arthur  Fire-the-Braes.  The  person  bear- 
ing this  redoubtable  nom  de  guerre  was  an  Elliot, 


THE  LA  Y  OF  THE  LAST  MINSTREL. 


577 


and  resided  at  Thorleshope,  in  Liddesdale.  He 
occurs  in  the  list  of  Border  riders,  in  1597. 

8.  Since  old  Bucclench,  etc.  A  tradition  pre- 
served by  Scott  of  Satchells  gives  the  following 
romantic  origin  of  that  name.  Two  brethren, 
natives  of  Galloway,  having  been  banished 
from  that  country  for  a  riot,  or  insurrection, 
came  to  Rankleburn,  in  Ettrick  Forest,  where 
the  keeper,  whose  name  was  Brydone,  received 
them  joyfully,  on  account  of  their  skill  in  wind- 
ing the  horn,  and  in  the  other  mysteries  of  the 
chase.  Kenneth  MacAlpin,  then  King  of  Scot- 
land, came  soon  after  to  hunt  in  the  royal  forest, 
and  pursued  a  buck  from  Ettrickheuch  to  the 
glen  now  called  Buckcleuch,  about  two  miles 
above  the  junction  of  Rankleburn  with  the 
river  Ettrick.  Here  the  stag  stood  at  bay ;  and 
the  king  and  his  attendants,  who  followed  on 
horseback,  were  thrown  out  by  the  steepness  of 
the  hill  and  the  morass.  John,  one  of  the  breth- 
ren from  Galloway,  had  followed  the  chase  on 
foot ;  and  now  coming  in,  seized  the  buck  by 
the  horns,  and,  being  a  man  of  great  strength 
and  activity,  threw  him  on  his  back,  and  ran 
with  his  burden  about  a  mile  up  the  steep  hill, 
to  a  place  called  Cracra-Cross,  where  Kenneth 
had  halted,  and  laid  the  buck  at  the  sovereign's 
feet. 

•io.  Albert  Grceme.  John  Grahame,  second 
son  of  Malice,  Earl  of  Monteith,  commonly  sur- 
named  John  with  the  Bright  Sword,  upon  some 
displeasure  risen  against  him  at  court,  retired 
with  many  of  his  clan  and  kindred  into  the 
English  Borders,  in  the  reign  of  King  Henry 
the  Fourth,  where  they  seated  themselves ; 
and  many  of  their  posterity  have  continued 
there  ever  since.  Mr.  Sandford,  speaking  of 
them,  says  (which  indeed  was  applicable  to 
most  of  the  Borderers  on  both  sides) :  "They 
were  all  stark  moss-troopers,  and  arrant  thieves  : 
Both  to  England  and  Scotland  outlawed;  yet 
sometimes  connived  at,  because  they  gave  intel- 
ligence forth  of  Scotland,  and  would  raise  400 
horse  at  any  time  upon  a  raid  of  the  English 
into  Scotland.  A  saying  is  recorded  of  a  mother 
to  her  son,  (which  is  now  become  proverbial,) 
Ride,  Rowley,  hough  "s  €  the  pot :  that  is,  the 
last  piece  of  beef  was  in  the  pot,  and  therefore 
it  was  high  time  for  him  to  go  and  fetch  more  " 
{History  of  Cumberland x  introd.). 

13.  The  gentle  Surrey.  The  gallant  and  un- 
fortunate Henry  Howard,  Earl  of  Surrey,  was 
unquestionably  the  most  accomplished  cavalier 
of  his  time;  and  his  sonnets  display  beauties 
which  would  do  honor  to  a  more  polished  age. 
He  was  beheaded  on  Tower- hill  in  1 546;  a  victim 
to  the  mean  jealousy  of  Henry  VIII.,  who  could 
not  bear  so  brilliant  a  character  near  his  throne. 

The  song  of  the  supposed  bard  is  founded  on 
an  incident  said  to  have  happened  to  the  Earl 
in  his  travels.  Cornelius  Agrippa,  the  cele- 
brated alchemist,  showed  him,  in  a  looking- 
glass,  the  lovely  Geraldine,  to  whose  service 
he  had  devoted  his  pen  and  his  sword.  The 
vision  represented  her  as  indisposed,  and  re- 
clining upon  a  couch,  reading  her  lover's  verses 
by  the  light  of  a  waxen  taper. 


22.  That  Sea-Snake,  etc.  The  jormungandr, 
or  Snake  of  the  Ocean,  whose  folds  surround 
the  earth,  is  one  of  the  wildest  fictions  of  the 
Edda.  It  was  very  nearly  caught  by  the  god 
Thor,  who  went  to  fish  for  it  with  a  hook  baited 
with  a  bull's  head.  In  the  battle  betwixt  the 
evil  demons  and  the  divinities  of  Odin,  which  is 
to  precede  the  Ragnarockr,  or  Twilight  of  the 
Gods,  this  Snake  is  to  act  a  conspicuous  part. 

22.  Those  dread  Maids.  These  were  the  Val- 
kyriur,  or  Selectors  of  the  Slain,  despatched  by 
Odin  from  Valhalla,  to  choose  those  who  were 
to  die,  and  to  distribute  the  contest.  They  are 
well  known  to  the  English  reader  as  Gray's 
Fatal  Sisters. 

22.  Of  Chiefs,  etc.  The  Northern  warriors 
were  usually  entombed  with  their  arms  and  their 
other  treasures.  Thus  Angantyr,  before  com- 
mencing the  duel  in  which  he  was  slain,  stipu- 
lated that  if  he  fell,  his  sword  Tyrfing  should 
be  buried  with  him.  His  daughter,  Hervor, 
afterwards  took  it  from  his  tomb-  The  dia- 
logue which  passed  betwixt  her  and  Angantyr's 
spirit  on  this  occasion  has  been  often  translated. 
The  whole  history  may  be  found  in  the  Herva- 
rar-Saga.  Indeed,  the  ghosts  of  the  Northern 
warriors  were  not  wont  tamely  to  suffer  their 
tombs  to  be  plundered ;  and  hence  the  mortal 
heroes  had  an  additional  temptation  to  attempt 
such  adventures;  for  they  held  nothing  more 
worthy  of  their  valor  than  to  encounter  super- 
natural beings. 

26.  Who  spoke  the  spectre-hound  in  Man. 
The  ancient  castle  of  Peel-town  in  the  Isle  of 
Man  is  surrounded  by  four  churches,  now  ruin- 
ous. They  say  that  an  apparition,  called,  in 
the  Mankish  language,  the  Mauthe  Doog,  in  the 
shape  of  a  large  black  spaniel,  with  curled 
shaggy  hair,  was  used  to  haunt  Peel-castle ; 
and  has  been  frequently  seen  in  every  room, 
but  particularly  in  the  guard-chamber,  where, 
as  soon  as  candles  were  lighted,  it  came  and 
lay  down  before  the  fire,  in  presence  of  all 
the  soldiers,  who,  at  length,  by  being  so  much 
accustomed  to  the  sight  of  it,  lost  great  part 
of  the  terror  they  were  seized  with  at  its  first 
appearance.  But  though  they  endured  the  shock 
of  such  a  guest  when  all  together  in  a  body, 
none  cared  to  be  left  alone  with  it.  It  being  the 
custom,  therefore,  for  one  of  the  soldiers  to  lock 
the  gates  of  the  castle  at  a  certain  hour,  and 
carry  the  keys  to  the  captain,  to  whose  apart- 
ment, as  I  said  before,  the  way  led  through  the 
church,  they  agreed  among  themselves,  that 
whoever  was  to  succeed  the  ensuing  night  his 
fellow  in  this  errand,  should  accompany  him 
that  went  first,  and  by  this  means  no  man  would 
be  exposed  singly  to  the  danger.  One  night  a 
fellow,  being  drunk,  laughed  at  the  simplicity  of 
his  companions ;  and  though  it  was  not  his 
turn  to  go  with  the  keys,  would  needs  take  that 
office  upon  him,  to  testify  his  courage.  All  the 
soldiers  endeavored  to  dissuade  him ;  but  the 
more  they  said,  the  more  resolute  he  seemed, 
and  swore  that  he  desired  nothing  more  than 
that  the  Mauthe  Doog  would  follow  him  as  it 
had  done  the  others ;  for  he  would  try  if  it  were 


578 


NOTES. 


dog  or  devil.  After  having  talked  in  a  very 
reprobate  manner  for  some  time,  he  snatched 
up  the  keys,  and  went  out  of  the  guard-room. 
In  some  time  after  his  departure,  a  great  noise 
was  heard,  but  nobody  had  the  boldness  to  see 
what  occasioned  it,  till,  the  adventurer  return- 
ing, they  demanded  the  knowledge  of  him ;  but  as 
loud  and  noisy  as  he  had  been  at  leaving  them, 
he  was  now  become  sober  and  silent  enough ; 
for  he  was  never  heard  to  speak  more ;  and 
though  all  the  time  he  lived,  which  was  three 
days,  he  was  entreated  by  all  who  came  near 
him,  either  to  speak,  or,  if  he  could  not  do  that, 
to  make  some  signs,  by  which  they  might  under- 
stand what  had  happened  to  him,  yet  nothing 
intelligible  could  be  got  from  him,  only  that, 
by  the  distortion  of  his  limbs  and  features,  it 


might  be  guessed  that  he  died  in  agonies  more 
than  is  common  in  a  natural  death. 

27.  Saint  Bride  of  Douglas.  This  was  a  favor- 
ite saint  of  the  house  of  Douglas,  and  of  the  Earl 
of  Angus  in  particular,  as  we  learn  from  Gods- 
croft,  who  says  :  "  The  Queen-Regent  had  pro- 
posed to  raise  a  rival  noble  to  the  ducal  dignity ; 
and  discoursing  of  her  purpose  with  Angus,  he 
answered,  '  Why  not,  madam  ?  we  are  happy 
that  have  such  a  princess,  that  can  know  and 
will  acknowledge  men's  services,  and  is  will- 
ing to  recompense  it ;  but,  by  the  might  of 
God  '  (this  was  his  oath  when  he  was  serious 
and  in  anger ;  at  other  times,  it  was  by  St. 
Bryde  of  Douglas),  'if  he  be  a  Duke,  I  will  be 
a  Drake ! '  So  she  desisted  from  prosecuting  of 
that  purpose." 


JM  arm  ton 


Scott  began  Marmion  in  November,  1806, 
while  he  was  engaged  upon  his  edition  of  Dry- 
den.  It  was  published  on  the  23d  of  February, 
1808,  "  in  a  splendid  quarto,  price  one  guinea 
and  a  half"  (about  $7.50  in  Federal  money), 
and  the  first  edition  of  two  thousand  copies 
was  exhausted  in  less  than  a  month. 

The  poem  was  prefaced  by  the  following 
"  Advertisement :  "  — 

"  It  is  hardly  to  be  expected  that  an  author 
whom  the  public  have  honored  with  some  de- 
gree of  applause  should  not  be  again  a  tres- 
passer on  their  kindness.  Yet  the  author  of 
Marmion  must  be  supposed  to  feel  some  anxi- 
ety concerning  its  success,  since  he  is  sensible 
that  he  hazards,  by  this  second  intrusion,  any 
reputation  which  his  first  poem  may  have  pro- 
cured him.  The  present  story  turns  upon  the 
private  adventures  of  a  fictitious  character,  but 
is  called  a  Tale  of  Flodden  Field,  because  the 
hero's  fate  is  connected  with  that  memorable 
defeat  and  the  causes  which  led  to  it.  The  de- 
sign of  the  author  was,  if  possible,  to  apprise 
iders,  at  the  outset,  of  the  date  of  his 
story,  and  to  prepare  them  for  the  manners  of 
in  which  it  is  laid.  Any  historical  nar- 
rative, far  more  an  attempt  at  epic  composition, 
exceeded  his  plan  of  a  romantic  tale;  yet  he 
may  be  permitted  to  hope,  from  the  popularity 
Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel,  that  an  attempt 
to  paint  tin-  manners  of  the  feudal  times,  upon 
a  broader  scale,  and  in  the  course  of  a  more  in- 
teresting story,  will  not  be  unacceptable  to  the 
public. 

"The  poem  opens  about  the  commencement 
of  August,  and  concludes  with  the  defeat  of 
Klodden,  9th  September,  1513. 

"Asm  sun.  1S08." 

Tlu  edit  ion  of  1830  contained  the  following 
"Introduction:"  — 

"What  I  have  to  say  respecting  this  poem 
may  be  briefly  told.    In  the  Introduction  to  the 


Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel  I  have  mentioned  the 
circumstances,  so  far  as  my  literary  life  is  con- 
cerned, which  induced  me  to  resign  the  active 
pursuit  of  an  honorable  profession  for  the  more 
precarious  resources  of  literature.  My  appoint- 
ment to  the  Sheriffdom  of  Selkirk  called  for  a 
change  of  residence.  I  left,  therefore,  the  pleas- 
ant cottage  I  had  upon  the  side  of  the  Esk,  for 
the  'pleasanter  banks  of  the  Tweed,'  in  order 
to  comply  with  the  law,  which  requires  that  the 
sheriff  shall  be  resident,  at  least  during  a  cer- 
tain number  of  months,  within  his  jurisdiction. 
We  found  a  delightful  retirement,  by  my  be- 
coming the  tenant  of  my  intimate  friend  and 
cousin-german,  Colonel  Russel,  in  his  mansion 
of  Ashestiel,  which  was  unoccupied  during  his' 
absence  on  military  service  in  India.  The 
house  was  adequate  to  our  accommodation  and 
the  exercise  of  a  limited  hospitality.  The  situ- 
ation is  uncommonly  beautiful,  by  the  side  of  a 
fine  river  whose  streams  are  there  very  favor- 
able for  angling,  surrounded  by  the  remains  of 
natural  woods,  and  by  hills  abounding  in  game. 
In  point  of  society,  according  to  the  heartfelt 
phrase  of  Scripture,  we  dwelt  'amongst  our 
own  people  ; '  and  as  the  distance  from  the 
metropolis  was  only  thirty  miles,  we  were  not 
out  of  reach  of  our  Edinburgh  friends,  in  which 
city  we  spent  the  terms  of  the  summer  and 
winter  sessions  of  the  court,  that  is,  five  or  six 
months  in  the  year. 

"  An  important  circumstance  had,  about  the 
same  time,  taken  place  in  my  life.  Hopes  had 
been  held  out  to  me  from  an  influential  quar- 
ter, of  a  nature  to  relieve  me  from  the  anxiety 
which  I  must  have  otherwise  felt,  as  one  upon 
the  precarious  tenure  of  whose  own  life  rested 
the  principal  prospects  of  his  family,  and  espe- 
cially as  one  who  had  necessarily  some  depend- 
ence upon  the  favor  of  the  public,  which  is 
proverbially  capricious;  though  it  is  but  justice 
to  add  that  in  my  own  case  I  have  not  found 
it  so.      Mr.  Pitt  had  expressed  a  wish  to  my 


MARMION. 


579 


personal  friend,  the  Right  Honorable  William 
Dundas,  now  Lord  Clerk  Register  of  Scotland, 
that  some  fitting  opportunity  should  be  taken 
to  be  of  service  to  me ;  and  as  my  views  and 
wishes  pointed  to  a  future  rather  than  an  im- 
mediate provision,  an  opportunity  of  accom- 
plishing this  was  soon  found.  One  of  the 
Principal  Clerks  of  Session,  as  they  are  called 
(official  persons  who  occupy  an  important  and 
responsible  situation,  and  enjoy  a  considerable 
income),  who  had  served  upwards  of  thirty 
years,  felt  himself,  from  age  and  the  infirmity 
of  deafness  with  which  it  was  accompanied,  de- 
sirous of  retiring  from  his  official  situation.  As 
the  law  then  stood,  such  official  persons  were 
entitled  to  bargain  with  their  successors,  either 
for  a  sum  of  money,  which  was  usually  a  con- 
siderable one,  or  for  an  interest  in  the  emol- 
uments of  the  office  during  their  life.  My 
predecessor,  whose  services  had  been  unusu- 
ally meritorious,  stipulated  for  the  emoluments 
of  his  office  during  his  life,  while  I  should  en- 
joy the  survivorship  on  the  condition  that  I 
discharged  the  duties  of  the  office  in  the  mean 
time.  Mr.  Pitt,  however,  having  died  in  the 
interval,  his  administration  was  dissolved,  and 
was  succeeded  by  that  known  by  the  name  of 
the  Fox  and  Grenville  Ministry.  My  affair  was 
so  far  completed  that  my  commission  lay  in 
the  office  subscribed  by  his  Majesty ;  but,  from 
hurry  or  mistake,  the  interest  of  my  predeces- 
sor was  not  expressed  in  it,  as  had  been  usual  j 
in  such  cases.  Although,  therefore,  it  only  i 
required  payment  of  the  fees,  I  could  not  in  i 
honor  take  out  the  commission  in  the  present  i 
state,  since,  in  the  event  of  my  dying  before  | 
him,  the  gentleman  whom  I  succeeded  must  j 
have  lost  the  vested  interest  which  he  had  stip-  J 
ulated  to  retain.  I  had  the  honor  of  an  inter- 
view with  Earl  Spencer  on  the  subject,  and  he, 
in  the  most  handsome  manner,  gave  directions 
that  the  commission  should  issue  as  originally 
intended;  adding,  that  the  matter  having  re- 
ceived the  royal  assent,  he  regarded  only  as  a 
claim  of  justice  what  he  would  have  willingly 
done  as  an  act  of  favor.  I  never  saw  Mr.  Fox 
on  this  or  on  any  other  occasion,  and  never 
made  any  application  to  him,  conceiving  that 
in  doing  so  I  might  have  been  supposed  to  ex- 
press political  opinions  contrary  to  those  which 
I  had  always  professed.  In  his  private  capac- 
ity, there  is  no  man  to  whom  I  would  have  been 
more  proud  to  owe  an  obligation,  had  I  been  so 
distinguished. 

"  By  this  arrangement  I  obtained  the  survivor- 
ship of  an  office  the  emoluments  of  which  were 
fully  adequate  to  my  wishes;  and  as  the  law 
respecting  the  mode  of  providing  for  superan- 
nuated officers  was,  about  five  or  six  years  after, 
altered  from  that  which  admitted  the  arrange- 
ment of  assistant  and  successor,  my  colleague 
very  handsomely  took  the  opportunity  of  the 
alteration  to  accept  of  the  retiring  annuity  pro- 
vided in  such  cases,  and  admitted  me  to  the 
full  benefit  of  the  office. 

"  But  although  the  certainty  of  succeeding  to 
a  considerable  income,  at  the  time  I  obtained  it, 


seemed  to  assure  me  of  a  quiet  harbor  in  my 
old  age,  I  did  not  escape  my  share  of  inconve- 
nience from  the  contrary  tides  and  currents  by 
which  we  are  so  often  encountered  in  our  jour- 
ney through  life.  Indeed,  the  publication  of 
my  next  poetical  attempt  was  prematurely 
accelerated,  from  one  of  those  unpleasant 
accidents  which  can  neither  be  foreseen  nor 
avoided. 

"  I  had  formed  the  prudent  resolution  to  en- 
deavor to  bestow  a  little  more  labor  than  I  had 
yet  done  on  my  productions,  and  to  be  in  no 
hurry  again  to  announce  myself  as  a  candidate 
for  literary  fame.  Accordingly,  particular  pas- 
sages of  a  poem  which  was  finally  called  Mar- 
mion were  labored  with  a  good  deal  of  care  by 
one  by  whom  much  care  was  seldom  bestowed. 
Whether  the  work  was  worth  the  labor  or  not, 
I  am  no  competent  judge ;  but  I  may  be  per- 
mitted to  say  that  the  period  of  its  composition 
was  a  very  happy  one  in  my  life;  so  much  so, 
that  I  remember  with  pleasure,  at  this  moment, 
some  of  the  spots  in  which  particular  passages 
were  composed.  It  is  probably  owing  to  this 
that  the  Introductions  to  the  several  cantos  as- 
sumed the  form  of  familiar  epistles  to  my  inti- 
mate friends,  in  which  I  alluded,  perhaps  more 
than  was  necessary  or  graceful,  to  my  domestic 
occupations  and  amusements,  —  a  loquacity 
which  may  be  excused  by  those  who  remember 
that  I  was  still  young,  light-headed,  and  happy, 
and  that  '  out  of  the  abundance  of  the  heart  the 
mouth  speaketh.' 

"  The  misfortunes  of  a  near  relation  and  friend, 
which  happened  at  this  time,  led  me  to  alter  my 
prudent  determination,  which  had  been  to  use 
great  precaution  in  sending  this  poem  into  the 
world ;  and  made  it  convenient  at  least,  if  not 
absolutely  necessary,  to  hasten  its  publication. 
The  publishers  of  The  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel, 
emboldened  by  the  success  of  that  poem,  wil- 
lingly offered  a  thousand  pounds  for  Marmion. 
The  transaction,  being  no  secret,  afforded  Lord 
Byron,  who  was  then  at  general  war  with  all 
who  blacked  paper,  an  apology  for  including 
me  in  his  satire  entitled  English  Bards  and 
Scotch  Reviewers!  I  never  could  conceive  how 
an  arrangement  between  an  author  and  his 
publishers,  if  satisfactory  to  the  persons  con- 
cerned, could  afford  matter  of  censure  to  any 
third  party.  I  had  taken  no  unusual  or  ungen- 
erous  means   of   enhancing   the  value   of  my 

1  Lockhart  quotes  the  passage,  which  is  as  follows  : 

"  Next  view  in  state,  proud  prancing  on  his  roan. 

The  golden-crested  haughty  Marnvon, 

Now  forging  scrolls,  now  foremost  in  the  fight, 

Not  quite  a  felon,  yet  but  half  a  knight, 

The  gibbet  or  the  field  prepared  to  grace ; 

A  mighty  mixture  of  the  great  and  base. 

And  think'st  thou,  Scott !  by  vain  conceit  perchance. 

On  public  laste  to  foist  thy  stale  romance. 

Though  Murray  with  hs  Miller  may  combine 

To  yield  thy  muse  just  half  a  crown  per  line  ? 

No  !  when  the  sons  of  song  descend  to  trade. 

Their  bays  are  sear,  their  former  laurels  fade. 

Let  such  forego  the  poet's  sacred  name. 

Who  rack  their  brains  for  lucre,  not  for  fame  ; 

Still  for  stern  Mammon  may  they  toil  in  vain  ! 

And  sadly  gaze  on  gold  they  cannot  gain  ! 

Such  be  their  meed,  such  still  the  just  reward 

Of  prostituted  muse  and  hireling  bard ! 

For  this  we  spurn  Apollo's  venal  son, 
,    And  bid  a  long  '  Good-night  to  Marmion.' " 


58o 


NOTES. 


merchandise,  —  I  had  never  higgled  a  moment 
about  the  bargain,  but  accepted  at  once  what  I 
considered  the  handsome  offer  of  my  publish- 
ers. These  gentlemen,  at  least,  were  not  of 
opinion  that  they  had  been  taken  advantage 
of  in  the  transaction,  which  indeed  was  one  of 
their  own  framing;  on  the  contrary,  the  sale  of 
the  poem  was  so  far  beyond  their  expectation 
as  to  induce  them  to  supply  the  author's  cellars 
with  what  is  always  an  acceptable  present  to  a 
young  Scottish  housekeeper,  namely,  a  hogs- 
head of  excellent  claret. 

"  The  poem  was  finished  in  too  much  haste 
to  allow  me  an  opportunity  of  softening  down, 
if  not  removing,  some  of  its  most  prominent  de- 
fects. The  nature  of  Marmion's  guilt,  although 
similar  instances  were  found,  and  might  be 
quoted,  as  existing  in  feudal  times,  was  never- 
theless not  sufficiently  peculiar  to  be  indicative 
of  the  character  of  the  period,  forgery  being  the 
crime  of  a  commercial  rather  than  a  proud  and 
warlike  age.  This  gross  defect  ought  to  have 
been  remedied  or  palliated.  Yet  I  suffered  the 
tree  to  lie  as  it  had  fallen.  I  remember  my 
friend,  Dr.  Leyden,  then  in  the  East,  wrote  me 
a  furious  remonstrance  on  the  subject.  I  have, 
nevertheless,  always  been  of  opinion  that  cor- 
rections, however  in  themselves  judicious,  have 
a  bad  effect  —  after  publication.  An  author  is 
never  so  decidedly  condemned  as  on  his  own 
confession,  and  may  long  find  apologists  and 
partisans  until  he  gives  up  his  own  cause.  I 
was  not,  therefore,  inclined  to  afford  matter  for 
censure  out  of  my  own  admissions;  and,  by 
good  fortune,  the  novelty  of  the  subject  and,  if 
I  may  say  so,  some  force  and  vivacity  of  de- 
scription, were  allowed  to  atone  for  many  im- 
perfections. Thus  the  second  experiment  on 
the  public  patience,  generally  the  most  peril- 
ous, —  for  the  public  are  then  most  apt  to  judge 
with  rigor  what  in  the  first  instance  they  had 
received  perhaps  with  imprudent  generosity,  — 
was  in  my  case  decidedly  successful.  I  had  the 
good  fortune  to  pass  this  ordeal  favorably,  and 
the  return  of  sales  before  me  makes  the  copies 
amount  to  thirty-six  thousand  printed  between 
1808  and  1825,  besides  a  considerable  sale  since 
that  period.  I  shall  here  pause  upon  the  sub- 
ject of  Marmion,  and,  in  a  few  prefatory  words 
to  The  Lady  of  the  Lake,  the  last  poem  of  mine 
which  obtained  eminent  success,  I  will  continue 
the  task  which  I  have  imposed  on  myself  re- 
specting the  origin  of  my  productions. 
lOTBFORD,  April,  1830." 


INTRODUCTION   TO   CANTO   FIRST. 

The  Champion  of  the  Lake.     Lancelot  du  Lac, 

famous  of   Arthur's  knights. 

lias  the  following  note  here-  — 

"The   Roman*  e  of  the  Morte  d 'Arthur  con- 

tainsasort  oi  abridgment  of  the  most  celebrated 

adventures  of   the    Round  Table;  and,  being 

written    in    comparatively    modern    language, 

neral  reader  an  excellent  idea  of 


what  romances  of  chivalry  actually  were.  It 
has  also  the  merit  of  being  written  in  pure  old 
English;  and  many  of  the  wild  adventures 
which  it  contains  are  told  with  a  simplicity 
bordering  upon  the  sublime.  Several  of  these 
are  referred  to  in  the  text;  .  .  .  but  I  con- 
fine myself  to  the  tale  of  the  Chapel  Perilous, 
and  of  the  quest  of  Sir  Launcelot  after  the 
Sangreal : 

"  '  Right  so  Sir  Launcelot  departed,  and  when 
he  came  to  the  Chapell  Perilous,  he  alighted 
downe,  and  tied  his  horse  to  a  little  gate.  And 
as  soon  as  he  was  within  the  churchyard,  he 
saw,  on  the  front  of  the  chapell,  many  faire 
rich  shields  turned  upside  downe ;  and  many 
of  the  shields  Sir  Launcelot  had  seene  knights 
have  before ;  with  that  he  saw  stand  by  him 
thirtie  great  knights,  more,  by  a  yard,  than  any 
man  that  ever  he  had  seene,  and  all  those 
grinned  and  gnashed  at  Sir  Launcelot;  and 
when  he  saw  their  countenance,  hee  dread 
them  sore,  and  so  put  his  shield  afore  him,  and 
tooke  his  sword  in  his  hand,  ready  to  doe  bat- 
taile ;  and  they  were  all  armed  in  black  harneis, 
ready,  with  their  shields  and  swords  drawen. 
And  when  Sir  Launcelot  would  have  gone 
through  them,  they  scattered  on  every  side  of 
him,  and  gave  him  the  way ;  and  therewith  he 
waxed  all  bold,  and  entered  into  the  chapell, 
and  then  hee  saw  no  light  but  a  dimme  lampe 
burning,  and  then  was  he  ware  of  a  corps  cov- 
ered with  a  cloath  of  silke ;  then  Sir  Launcelot 
stooped  downe,  and  cut  a  piece  of  that  cloath 
away,  and  then  it  fared  under  him  as  the  earth 
had  quaked  a  little,  whereof  he  was  afeard,  and 
then  hee  saw  a  faire  sword  lye  by  the  dead 
knight,  and  that  he  gat  in  his  hand,  and  hied 
him  out  of  the  chappell.  As  soon  as  he  was  in 
the  chappell-yerd,  all  the  knights  spoke  to  him 
with  a  grimly  voice,  and  said,  "  Knight,  Sir 
Launcelot,  lay  that  sword  from  thee,  or  else 
thou  shalt  die."  —  "  Whether  I  live  or  die,"  said 
Sir  Launcelot,  "with  no  great  words  get  yee 
it  againe,  therefore  fight  for  it  and  yee  list." 
Therewith  he  passed  through  them;'  and,  be- 
yond the  chappell-yerd,  there  met  him  a  faire 
damosell,  and  said,  "  Sir  Launcelot,  leave  that 
sword  behind  thee,  or  thou  wilt  die  for  it."  — 
"  I  will  not  leave  it,"  said  Sir  Launcelot,  "  for 
no  threats."  —  "  No  ? "  said  she  ;  "  and  ye  did 
leave  that  sword,  Queene  Guenever  should  ye 
never  see."  —  "  Then  were  I  afoole  and  I  would 
leave  this  sword,"  said  Sir  Launcelot.  —  "  Now, 
gentle  knight,"  said  the  damosell,  "  I  require 
thee  to  kisse  me  once."  — "  Nay,"  said  Sir 
Launcelot,  "that  God  forbid  !  "  —  "  Well,  sir," 
said  she,  "  and  thou  haddest  kissed  me  thy  life 
dayes  had  been  done ;  but  now,  alas !  "  said  she, 
"  I  have  lost  all  my  labour ;  for  I  ordeined  this 
chappell  for  thy  sake,  and  for  Sir  Gawaine  :  and 
once  I  had  Sir  Gawaine  within  it ;  and  at  that 
time  he  fought  with  that  knight  which  there 
lieth  dead  in  yonder  chappell,  Sir  Gilbert  the 
bastard,  and  at  that  time  hee  smote  off  Sir  Gil- 
bert the  bastard's  left  hand.  And  so,  Sir  Laun- 
celot, now  I  tell  thee,  that  I  have  loved  thee 
this  seaven  yeare;  but  there  may  no  woman 


MARMION. 


58i 


have  thy  love  but  Queene  Guenever  ;  but  sithen 
I  may  not  rejoyce  thee  to  have  thy  body  alive, 
I  had  kept  no  more  joy  in  this  world  but  to 
have  had  thy  dead  body ;  and  I  would  have 
balmed  it  and  served,  and  so  have  kept  it  in  my 
life  daies,  and  daily  I  should  have  clipped  thee, 
and  kissed  thee,  in  the  despite  of  Queene  Gue- 
never." —  "  Yee  say  well,"  said  Sir  Launcelot ; 
"Jesus  preserve  me  from  your  subtill  craft." 
And  therewith  he  took  his  horse  and  departed 
from  her.'  " 

A  sinful  man,  etc.  One  day,  when  Arthur 
was  holding  a  high  feast  with  his  Knights  of 
the  Round  Table,  the  Sangreal,  or  vessel  out  of 
which  the  last  passover  was  eaten,  a  precious 
relic,  which  had  long  remained  concealed  from 
human  eyes,  because  of  the  sins  of  the  land, 
suddenly  appeared  to  him  and  all  his'  chivalry. 
The  consequence  of  this  vision  was,  that  all  the 
knights  took  on  them  a  solemn  vow  to  seek  the 
Sangreal.  But,  alas !  it  could  only  be  revealed 
to  a  knight  at  once  accomplished  in  earthly 
chivalry,  and  pure  and  guiltless  of  evil  conver- 
sation. All  Sir  Launcelot's  noble  accomplish- 
ments were  therefore  rendered  vain  by  his 
guilty  intrigue  with  Queen  Guenever,  or  Ga- 
nore;  and  in  this  holy  quest  he  encountered 
only  such  disgraceful  disasters  as  that  which 
follows : 

"  But  Sir  Launcelot  rode  overthwart  and  end- 
long in  a  wild  forest,  and  held  no  path,  but  as 
wild  adventure  led  him;  and  at  the  last,  he 
came  unto  a  stone  crosse,  which  departed  two 
wayes,  in  wast  land ;  and,  by  the  crosse,  was  a 
ston  that  was  of  marble ;  but  it  was  so  darke, 
that  Sir  Launcelot  might  not  well  know  what  it 
was.  Then  Sir  Launcelot  looked  by  him,  and 
saw  an  old  chappell,  and  there  he  wend  to  have 
found  people.  And  so  Sir  Launcelot  tied  his 
horse  to  a  tree,  and  there  hee  put  off  his  shield, 
and  hung  it  upon  a  tree,  and  then  hee  went 
unto  the  chappell  doore,  and  found  it  wasted 
and  broken.  And  within  he  found  a  faire  alter 
full  richly  arrayed  with  cloth  of  silk,  and  there 
stood  a  faire  candlestick,  which  beare  six  great 
candels,  and  the  candlesticke  was  of  silver. 
And  when  Sir  Launcelot  saw  this  light,  hee  had 
a  great  will  for  to  enter  into  the  chappell,  but 
hee  could  find  no  place  where  hee  might  enter. 
Then  was  he  passing  heavie  and  dismaied. 
Then  hee  returned,  and  came  again  to  his 
horse,  and  tooke  off  his  saddle  and  his  bridle, 
and  let  him  pasture,  and  unlaced  his  helme, 
and  ungirded  his  sword,  and  laide  him  downe 
to  sleepe  upon  his  shield  before  the  crosse. 

"  And  so  hee  fell  on  sleepe,  and  halfe  waking 
and  halfe  sleeping,  hee  saw  come  by  him  two 
pal  f ryes,  both  faire  and  white,  the  which  beare 
a  litter,  therein  lying  a  sicke  knight.  And 
when  he  was  nigh  the  crosse,  he  there  abode 
still.  All  this  Sir  Launcelot  saw  and  beheld, 
for  hee  slept  not  verily,  and  hee  heard  him  say, 
'  Oh  sweete  Lord,  when  shall  this  sorrow  leave 
me,  and  when  shall  the  holy  vessel  come  by  me, 
where  through  I  shall  be  blessed,  for  I  have 
endured  thus  long,  for  little  trespasse.'  And 
thus  a  great  while  complained  the  knight,  and 


allwaies  Sir  Launcelot  heard  it.  With  that  Sir 
Launcelot  saw  the  candlesticke,  with  the  six 
tapers  come  before  the  crosse;  but  he  could 
see  no  body  that  brought  it.  Also  there  came 
a  table  of  silver,  and  the  holy  vessell  of  the 
Sancgreall,  the  which  Sir  Launcelot  had  seene 
before  that  time  in  King  Petchour's  house. 
And  therewithall  the  sicke  knight  set  him  up- 
right, and  held  up  both  his  hands,  and  said, 
'  Faire  sweete  Lord,  which  is  here  within  the 
holy  vessell,  take  heede  to  mee,  that  I  may  be& 
hole  of  this  great  malady.'  And  therewith 
upon  his  hands,  and  upon  his  knees,  he  went 
so  nigh,  that  he  touched  the  holy  vessell,  and 
kissed  it :  And  anon  he  was  hole,  and  then  he 
said,  '  Lord  God,  I  thank  thee,  for  I  am  healed 
of  this  malady/  Soo  when  the  holy  vessell 
had  been  there  a  great  while,  it  went  unto  the 
chappell  againe  with  the  candlesticke  and  the 
light,  so  that  Sir  Launcelot  wist  not  where  it 
became,  for  he  was  overtaken  with  sinne,  that 
hee  had  no  power  to  arise  against  the  holy  ves- 
sell, wherefore  afterward  many  men  said  of  him 
shame.  But  he  tooke  repentance  afterward. 
Then  the  sicke  knight  dressed  him  upright, 
and  kissed  the  crosse.  Then  anon  his  squire 
brought  him  his  armes,  and  asked  his  lord  how 
he  did.  '  Certainely,'  said  hee,  '  I  thanke  God 
right  heartily,  for  through  the  holy  vessell  I  am 
healed.  But  I  have  right  great  mervaile  of  this 
sleeping  knight,  which  hath  had  neither  grace 
nor  power  to  awake  during  the  time  that  this 
holy  vessell  hath  beene  here  present.'  '  I  dare 
it  right  well  say,'  said  the  squire,  'that  this 
same  knight  is  defouled  with  some  manner  of 
deadly  sinne,  whereof  he  was  never  confessed.' 
'  By  my  faith/  said  the  knight, '  whatsoever  he 
be,  he  is  unhappie ;  for  as  I  deeme  hee  is  of 
the  fellowship  of  the  Round  Table,  the  which 
is  entred  into  the  quest  of  the  Sancgreall/ 
■  Sir/  said  the  squire,  '  here  I  have  brought 
you  all  your  armes,  save  your  helme  and  your 
sword,  and  therefore,  by  mine  assent,  now  may 
ye  take  this  knight's  helme  and  his  sword/  and 
so  he  did.  And  when  he  was  cleane  armed,  he 
tooke  Sir  Launcelot's  horse,  for  he  was  better 
than  his  owne,  and  so  they  departed  from  the 
crosse. 

"  Then  anon  Sir  Launcelot  awaked,  and  set 
himselfe  upright,  and  hee  thought  him  what  hee 
had  there  seene,  and  whether  it  were  dreames 
or  not,  right  so  he  heard  a  voice  that  said  '  Sir 
Launcelot,  more  harder  then  is  the  stone,  and 
more  bitter  then  is  the  wood,  and  more  naked 
and  bare  then  is  the  liefe  of  the  fig-tree,  there- 
fore go  thou  from  hence,  and  withdraw  thee 
from  this  holy  place ; '  and  when  Sir  Launcelot 
heard  this,  hee  was  passing  heavy,  and  wist  not 
what  to  doe.  And  so  he  departed  sore  weep- 
ing, and  cursed  the  time  that  he  was  borne; 
for  then  hee  deemed  never  to  have  had  more 
worship;  for  the  words  went  unto  his  heart, 
till  that  he  knew  wherefore  that  hee  was  so 
called." 

And  Dry  den  in  immortal  strain.  Dryden's 
melancholy  account  of  his  projected  Epic  Poem, 
blasted  by  the  selfish  and  sordid  parsimony  of 


582 


NOTES. 


his  patrons,  is  contained  in  an  Essay  on  Satire, 
addressed  to  the  Earl  of  Dorset,  and  prefaced 
to  the  Translation  of  Juvenal.  After  .nentioning 
a  plan  of  supplying  machinery  from  the  guard- 
ian angels  of  kingdoms,  mentioned  in  the  Book 
of  Daniel,  he  adds:  'Thus,  my  Lord,  I  have, 
as  briefly  as  I  could,  given  your  lordship,  and 
by  you  the  world,  a  "rude  draft  of  what  I  have 
been  long  laboring  in  my  imagination,  and  what 
I  had  intended  to  have  put  in  practice  (though 
far  unable  for  the  attempt  of  such  a  poem)  ; 
and  to  have  left  the  stage,  to  which  my  genius 
never  much  inclined  me,  for  a  work  which 
would  have  taken  up  my  life  in  the  perform- 
ance of  it.  This,  too,  I  had  intended  chiefly  for 
the  honor  of  my  native  country,  to  which  a  poet 
is  particularly  obliged.  Of  two  subjects,  both 
relating  to  it,  I  was  doubtful  whether  I  should 
choose  that  of  King  Arthur  conquering  the 
Saxons,  which,  being  further  distant  in  time, 
gives  the  greater  scope  to  my  invention;  or 
that  of  Edward  the  Black  Prince,  in  subduing 
Spain,  and  restoring  it  to  the  lawful  prince, 
though  a  great  tyrant,  Don  Pedro  the  Cruel ; 
which,  for  the  compass  of  time,  including  only* 
the  expedition  of  one  year,  for  the  greatness  of 
the  action,  and  its  answerable  event,  for  the 
magnanimity  of  the  English  hero,  opposed  to 
the  ingratitude  of  the  person  whom  he  restored, 
and  for  the  many  beautiful  episodes  which  I 
had  interwoven  with  the  principal  design,  to- 
gether with  the  characters  of  the  chiefest  Eng- 
lish persons  (wherein,  after  Virgil  and  Spenser, 
I  would  have  taken  occasion  to  represent  my 
living  friends  and  patrons  of  the  noblest  fami- 
lies, and  also  shadowed  the  events  of  future 
ages  in  the  succession  of  our  imperial  line),  — 
with  these  helps,  and  those  of  the  machines 
which  I  have  mentioned,  I  might  perhaps  have 
done  as  well  as  some  of  my  predecessors,  or  at 
least  chalked  out  a  way  for  others  to  amend 
my  errors  in  a  like  design ;  but  being  encour- 
aged only  with  fair  words  by  King  Charles  II., 
my  little  salary  ill  paid,  and  no  prospect  of  a 
future  subsistence,  I  was  then  discouraged  in 
the  beginning  of  my  attempt ;  and  now  age  has 
overtaken  me ;  and  want,  a  more  insufferable 
evil,  through  the  change  of  the  times,  has 
wholly  disabled  me.'  " 

Ytene's  oaks.  The  New  Forest  in  Hampshire, 
anciently  so  called. 

Ascapart  and  Bcvis  bold.  Ascapart,  or  As- 
cabart,  was  a  giant  who  figures  in  the  History 
of  Bevis  of  Hampton,  by  whom  he  was  con- 
quered. The  images  of  the  two  are  still  to  be 
seen  on  either  side  of  an  old  gate  at  Southamp- 
ton. Scott  quotes  the  description  of  Ascapart 
from  Mr.  George  Ellis's  translation  of  the  old 
romance :  — 

"  This  geaunt  was  mighty  and  strong, 

And  full  thirty  foot  was  long. 

He  was  bristled  like  a  sow  ; 

A  foot  he  had  between  each  brow ; 

His  lips  were  great,  and  hung  aside  ; 

His  even  were  hollow,  his  mouth  was  wide; 

Loihly  he  was  to  look  on  than, 

And  liker  a  devil  than  a  man. 

His  staff  was  a  young  oak, 

Hard  and  heavy  was  his  stroke." 


CANTO    FIRST. 

i.  Norham's  castled  steep.  The  ruinous  castle 
of  Norham  (anciently  called  Ubbanford)  is  sit- 
uated on  the  southern  bank  of  the  Tweed,  about 
six  miles  above  Berwick,  and  where  that  river 
is  still  the  boundary  between  England  and  Scot- 
land. The  extent  of  its  ruins,  as  well  as  its  his- 
torical importance,  show  it  to  have  been  a  place 
of  magnificence,  as  well  as  strength.  Edward 
I.  resided  there  when  he  was  created  umpire  of 
the  dispute  concerning  the  Scottish  succession. 
It  was  repeatedly  taken  and  retaken  during  the 
wars  between  England  and  Scotland ;  and,  in- 
deed, scarce  any  happened  in  which  it  had  not 
a  principal  share.  Norham  Castle  is  situated 
on  a  steep  bank  which  overhangs  the  river.  The 
repeated  sieges  which  the  castle  had  sustained 
rendered  frequent  repairs  necessary.  In  ut>4  it 
was  almost  rebuilded  by  Hugh  Pudsey,  Bishop 
of  Durham,  who  added  a  huge  keep  or  donjon ; 
notwithstanding  which,  King  Henry  II.,  in  1174, 
took  the  castle  from  the  bishop,  and  committed 
the  keeping  of  it  to  William  de  Neville.  After 
this  period  it  seems  to  have  been  chiefly  gar- 
risoned by  the  king,  and  considered  as  a  royal 
fortress.  The  Greys  of  Chillinghame  Castle 
were  frequently  the  castellans  or  captains  of 
the  garrison.  Yet,  as  the  castle  was  situated  in 
the  patrimony  of  Saint  Cuthbert,  the  property 
was  in  the  see  of  Durham  till  the  Reformation. 

The  ruins  of  the  castle  consist  of  a  large  shat- 
tered tower,  with  many  vaults,  and  fragments  of 
other  edifices,  enclosed  within  an  outward  wall 
of  great  circuit. 

1.  The  donjon  keep.  It  is  perhaps  unnecessary 
to  remind  my  readers  that  dorijon,  in  its  proper 
signification,  means  the  strongest  part  of  a 
feudal  castle ;  a  high  square  tower,  with  walls 
of  tremendous  thickness,  situated  in  the  centre 
of  the  other  buildings,  from  which,  however,  it 
was  usually  detached.  Here,  in  case  of  the  out- 
ward defences  being  gained,  the  garrison  re- 
treated to  make  their  last  stand.  The  donjon 
contained  the  great  hall,  and  principal  rooms 
of  state  for  solemn  occasions,  and  also  the 
prison  of  the  fortress ;  from  which  last  circum- 
stance we  derive  the  modern  and  restricted  use 
of  the  word  dungeon. 

6.  Mail  and  plate  of  Milan  steel.  The  artists 
of  Milan  were  famous  in  the  middle  ages  for  their 
skill  in  armory,  as  appears  from  the  following 
passage,  in  which  Froissart  gives  an  account  of 
the  preparations  made  by  Henrv,  Earl  of  Here- 
ford, afterwards  Henry  IV.,  and'  Thomas,  Duke 
of  Norfolk,  Earl  Marischal,  for  their  proposed 
combat  in  the  lists  at  Coventry:  'These  two 
lords  made  ample  provision  of  all  things  neces- 
sary for  the  combat;  and  the  Earl  of  Derby 
sent  off  messengers  to  Lombardy,  to  have 
armor  from  Sir  Galeas,  Duke  of  Milan.  The 
duke  complied  with  joy,  and  gave  the  knight, 
called  Sir  Francis,  who  had  brought  the  mes- 
sage, the  choice  of  all  his  armor  for  the  Earl  of 
Derby.  When  he  had  selected  what  he  wished 
for  in  plated  and  mail  armor,  the  Lord  of  Milan, 
out  of  his  abundant  love  for  the  -earl,  ordered 


MARMION. 


583 


four  of  the  best  armorers  in  Milan  to  accom- 
pany the  knight  to  England,  that  the  Earl  of   | 
Derby  might  be  more  completely  armed.'" 

6.  Checks  at.     The  crest  and  motto  of  Mar-   I 
mion  are  borrowed  from  the  following  story: 
Sir  David  de  Lindesay,  first  Earl  of  Crauford,    ; 
was,  among  other  gentlemen  of  quality,  attended,    , 
during  a  visit  to  London,  in  1390,  by  Sir  Wil-    j 
liam  Dalzell,  who  was,  according  to  my  author-   I 
ity,  Bower,  not  only  excelling  in  wisdom,  but 
also  of  a  lively  wit.     Chancing  to  be  at  the 
court,  he  there  saw  Sir  Piers   Courtenay,   an    j 
English  knight,  famous  for  skill  in  tilting,  and    I 
for  the  beauty  of  his  person,  parading  the  palace,    j 
arrayed  in  a  new  mantle,  bearing  for  device  an 
embroidered  falcon,  with  this  rhyme, — 

"  I  bear  a  falcon,  fairest  of  flight, 
Whoso  pinches  at  her,  his  death  is  dight,1 

In  graith."  2 

The  Scottish  knight,  being  a  wag,  appeared 
next  day  in  a  dress  exactly  similar  to  that  of 
Courtenay,  but  bearing  a  magpie  instead  of  a 
falcon,  with  a  motto  ingeniously  contrived 
to  rhyme  to  the  vaunting  inscription  of  Sir 
Piers :  — 

u  I  bear  a  pie  picking  at  a  peice, 
Whoso  picks  at  her,  I  shall  pick  at  his  nese,3 
In  faith." 

This  affront  could  only  be  expiated  by  a  joust 
with  sharp  lances.  In  the  course,  Dalzell  left 
his  helmet  unlaced,  so  that  it  gave  way  at  the 
touch  of  his  antagonist's  lance,  and  he  thus 
avoided  the  shock  of  the  encounter.  This  hap- 
pened twice  :  in  the  third  encounter,  the  hand- 
some Courtenay  lost  two  of  his  front  teeth.  As 
the  Englishman  complained  bitterly  of  Dalzell's 
fraud  in  not  fastening  his  helmet,  the  Scottish- 
man  agreed  to  run  six  courses  more,  each 
champion  staking  in  the  hand  of  the  king  two 
hundred  pounds,  to  be  forfeited,  if,  on  entering 
the  lists,  any  unequal  advantage  should  be 
detected.  This  being  agreed  to,  the  wily  Scot 
demanded  that  Sir  Piers,  in  addition  to  the  loss 
of  his  teeth,  should  consent  to  the  extinction  of 
one  of  his  eyes,  he  himself  having  lost  an  eye 
in  the  fight  of  Otterburn.  As  Courtenay  dV 
murred  to  this  equalization  of  optical  powers, 
Dalzell  demanded  the  forfeit,  which,  after  much 
altercation,  the  king  appointed  to  be  paid  to 
him,  saying  he  surpassed  the  English  both  in 
wit  and  valor. 

11.  They  hailed  him, -etc.  Lord  Marmion,  the 
principal  character  of  the  present  romance,  is 
entirely  a  fictitious  personage.  In  earlier  times, 
indeed,  the  family  of  Marmion,  Lords  of  Fon- 
tenay,  in  Normandy,  was  highly  distinguished. 
Robert  de  Marmion,  Lord  of  Fontenay.  a  dis- 
tinguished follower  of  the  Conqueror,  obtained 
a  grant  of  the  castle  and  town  of  Tamworth, 
and  also  of  the  manor  of  Scrivelby,  in  Lincoln- 
shire. One  or  both  of  these  noble  possessions 
was  held  by  the  honorable  service  of  being 
the  royal  champion,  as  the  ancestors  of  Mar- 
1  Prepared.  -  Armor.  3  Nose. 


mion  had  formerly  been  to  the  Dukes  of  Nor- 
mandy. But  after  the  castle  and  demesne  of 
Tamworth  had  passed  through  four  successive 
barons  from  Robert,  the  family  became  extinct 
in  the  person  of  Philip  de  Marmion,  who  died 
in  20th  Edward  I.  without  issue  male.  He  was 
succeeded  in  his  castle  of  Tamworth  by  Alex- 
ander de  Freville,  who  married  Mazera,  his 
granddaughter.  Baldwin  de  Freville,  Alex- 
ander's descendant,  in  the  reign  of  Richard  I., 
by  the  supposed  tenure  of  his  castle  of  Tam- 
worth, claimed  the  office  of  royal  champion, 
and  to  do  the  service  appertaining;  namely, 
on  the  day  of  coronation  to  ride,  completely 
armed,  upon  a  barbed  horse,  into  Westmin- 
ster Hall,  and  there  to  challenge  the  combat 
against  any  who  would  gainsay  the  king's  title. 
But  this  office  was  adjudged  to  Sir  John  Dy- 
moke,  to  whom  the  manor  of  Scrivelby  had 
descended  by  another  of  the  coheiresses  of 
Robert  de  Marmion ;  and  it  remains  in  that 
family,  whose  representative  is  Hereditary 
Champion  of  England  at  the  present  day.  The 
family  and  possessions  of  Freville  have  merged 
in  the  Earls  of  Ferrars.  I  have  not,  therefore, 
created  a  new  family,  but  only  revived  the  titles 
of  an  old  one  in  an  imaginary  personage. 

11.  Alow,  largesse,  etc.  This  was  the  cry 
with  which  heralds  and  pursuivants  were  wont 
to  acknowledge  the  bounty  received  from  the 
knights.  The  heralds,  like  the  minstrels,  were 
a  race  allowed  to  have  great  claims  upon  the 
liberality  of  the  knights,  of  whose  feats  they 
kept  a  record,  and  proclaimed  them  aloud,  as 
in  the  text,  upon  suitable  occasions.  At  Ber- 
wick, Norham,  and  other  Border  fortresses  of 
importance,  pursuivants  usually  resided,  whose 
inviolable  character  rendered  them  the  only 
persons  that  could,  with  perfect  assurance  of 
safety,  be  sent  on  necessary  embassies  into 
Scotland.     This  is  alluded  to  in  21,  below. 

13.  Hugh  the  Heron.  Were  accuracy  of  any 
consequence  in  a  fictitious  narrative,  this  cas- 
tellan's name  ought  to  have  been  William ;  for 
William  Heron  of  Ford  was  husband  to  the 
famous  Lady  Ford,  whose  siren  charms  are 
said  to  have  cost  our  James  IV.  so  dear. 
Moreover,  the  said  William  Heron  was,  at 
the  time  supposed,  a  prisoner  in  Scotland,  be- 
ing surrendered  by  Henry  VIIL,  on  account 
of  his  share  in  the  slaughter  of  Sir  Robert 
Ker  of  Cessford.  His  wife,  represented  in 
the  text  as  residing  at  the  Court  of  Scotland, 
was,  in  fact,  living  in  her  own  castle  at  Ford. 

18.  Warbeck.  The  story  of  Perkin  Warbeck, 
or  Richard,  Duke  of  York,  is  well  known.  In 
1496  he  was  received  honorably  in  Scotland; 
and  James  IV.,  after  conferring  upon  him  in 
marriage  his  own  relation,  the  Lady  Catherine 
Gordon,  made  war  on  England  in  behalf  of  his 
pretensions.  To  retaliate  an  invasion  of  Eng- 
land, Surrey  advanced  into  Berwickshire  at  the 
head  of  considerable  forces,  but  retreated  after 
taking  the  inconsiderable  fortress  of  Ayton. 

19.  Have  pricked  as  far,  etc.  The  garrisons 
of  the  English  castles  of  Wark,  Norham,  and 
Berwick  were,  as  may  be  easily  supposed,  very 


584 


NOTES. 


troublesome  neighbors  to  Scotland.  Sir  Rich- 
ard Maitland  of  Ledington  wrote  a  poem, 
called  "The  Blind  Baron's  Comfort,"  when 
his  barony  of  Blythe,  in  Lauderdale,  was  har- 
ried by  Rowland  Foster,  the  English  captain 
of  Wark,  with  his  company,  to  the  number  of 
300  men.  They  spoiled  the  poetical  knight  of 
5,000  sheep,  200  nolt,  30  horses  and  mares  ;  the 
whole  furniture  of  his  house  of  Blythe,  worth 
100  pounds  Scots,  and  everything  else  that  was 
portable.  "  This  spoil  was  committed  the  16th 
day  of  May,  1570  (and  the  said  Sir  Richard  was 
threescore  and  fourteen  years  of  age,  and  grown 
blind),  in  time  of  peace;  when  nane  of  that 
country  lippened  [expected]  such  a  thing." 

19.  To  set  their  hoods.  The  line  contains  a 
phrase  by  which  the  Borderers  jocularly  inti- 
mated the  burning  of  a  house.  When  the  Max- 
wells, in  1685,  burned  the  castle  of  Lockwood, 
they  said  they  did  so  to  give  the  Lady  John- 
stone "  light  to  set  her  hood."  Nor  was  the 
phrase  inapplicable  ;  for,  in  a  letter  to  which  I 
have  mislaid  the  reference,  the  Earl  of  North- 
umberland writes  to  the  king  and  council,  that 
he  dressed  himself,  at  midnight,  at  Warwick, 
by  the  blaze  of  the  neighboring  villages  burned 
by  the  Scottish  marauders. 

21.  The  priest  of  Shoreswood.  This  church- 
man seems  to  have  been  akin  to  Welsh,  the 
vicar  of  St.  Thomas  of  Exeter,  a  leader  among 
the  Cornish  insurgents  in  1549.  "This  man," 
says  Holinshed,  "  had  many  good  things  in  him. 
He  was  of  no  great  stature,  but  well  set,  and 
mightilie  compact :  he  was  a  very  good  wrestler  ; 
shot  well,  both  in  the  long-bow,  and  also  in  the 
cross-bow  ;  he  handled  his  hand-gun  and  peece 
very  well ;  he  was  a  very  good  woodman,  and  a 
hardie,  and  such  a  one  as  would  not  give  his 
head  for  the  poling,  or  his  beard  for  the  wash- 
ing. He  was  a  companion  in  any  exercise  of 
activitie,  and  of  a  courteous  and  gentle  be- 
haviour. He  descended  of  a  good,  honest 
parentage,  being  borne  at  Peneverin,  in  Corn- 
wall ;  and  yet,  in  this  rebellion,  an  arch-captain, 
and  a  principal  doer."  This  model  of  clerical 
talents  had  the  misfortune  to  be  hanged  upon 
the  steeple  of  his  own  church. 

23.  A  holy  Palmer.  A  Palmer,  opposed  to  a 
Pilgrim,  was  one  who  made  it  his  sole  business 
to  visit  different  holy  shrines,  travelling  inces- 
santly, and  subsisting  by  charity ;  whereas  the 
Pilgrim  retired  to  his  usual  home  and  occupa- 
tions when  he  had  paid  his  devotions  at  the 
particular  spot  which  was  the  object  of  his 
pilgrimage. 

23.  And  of  that  Grot,  etc.  Scott  here  quotes 
the  Voyage  to  Sicily  and  Malta,  by  Mr.  John 
(son  of  the  poet):  "Santa  Rosalia  was 
Of  Palermo,  and  born  of  a  very  noble  family, 
and,  when  vtiv  young,  abhorred  so  much  the 
vanities  of  this  world,  and  avoided  the  con- 
i  mankind,  resolving  to  dedicate  herself 
wholly  to  Cod  Almighty,  that  she,  by  divine 
inspiration,  forsook  her  father's  house,  and 
never  was  more  heard  of,  till  her  body  was 
found  in  that  cleft  of  a  rock,  on  that  almost 
inaccessible  mountain,  where  now  the   chapel 


is  built ;  and  they  affirm  she  was  carried  up 
there  by  the  hands  of  angels ;  for  that  place 
was  not  formerly  so  accessible  (as  now  it  is)  in 
the  days  of  the  saint ;  and  even  now  it  is  a 
very  bad,  and  steepy,  and  breakneck  way.  In 
this  frightful  place  this  holy  woman  lived  a 
great  many  years,  feeding  only  on  what  she 
found  growing  on  that  barren  mountain,  and 
creeping  into  a  narrow  and  dreadful  cleft  in  a 
rock,  which  was  always  dropping  wet,  and  was 
her  place  of  retirement,  as  well  as  prayer  ;  hav- 
ing worn  out  even  the  rock  with  her  knees,  in 
a  certain  place,  which  is  now  opened  on  pur- 
pose to  show  it  to  those  who  come  here.  This 
chapel  is  very  richly  adorned  ;  and  on  the  spot 
where  the  saint's  dead  body  was  discovered, 
which  is  just  beneath  the  hole  in  the  rock, 
which  is  opened  on  purpose,  as  I  said,  there 
is  a  very  fine  statue  of  marble,  representing 
her  in  a  lying  posture,  railed  in  all  about  with 
fine  iron  and  brass  work :  and  the  altar,  on 
which  they  say  mass,  is  built  just  over  it." 

29.  Where  good  Saint  Pule,  etc.  Saint  Regulus 
{Scottice,  St.  Rule),  a  monk  of  Patrae,  in  Achaia, 
warned  by  a  vision,  is  said,  A.  D.  370,  to  have 
sailed  westward,  until  he  landed  at  St.  An- 
drew's, in  Scotland,  where  he  founded  a  chapel 
and  tower.  The  latter  is  still  standing;  and, 
though  we  may  doubt  the  precise  date  of  its 
foundation,  is  certainly  one  of  the  most  ancient 
edifices  in  Scotland.  A  cave,  nearly  fronting 
the  ruinous  castle  of  the  Archbishops  of  St. 
Andrew's,  bears  the  name  of  this  religious  per- 
son. It  is  difficult  of  access,  and  the  rock  in 
which  it  is  hewed  is  washed  by  the  German 
ocean.  It  is  nearly  round,  about  ten  feet  in 
diameter,  and  the  same  in  height.  On  one 
side  is  a  sort  of  stone  altar ;  on  the  other  an 
aperture  into  an  inner  den,  where  the  miserable 
ascetic,  who  inhabited  this  dwelling,  probably 
slept.  At  full  tide,  egress  and  regress  is  hardly 
practicable. 

29.  Saint  Fillan's  blessed  well.  Saint  Fillan 
was  a  Scottish  saint  of  some  reputation.  .  .  . 
There  are  in  Perthshire  several  wells  and 
springs  dedicated  to  Saint  Fillan,  which  are  still 
places  of  pilgrimage  and  offerings,  even  among 
the  Protestants.  They  are  held  powerful  in 
cases  of  madness  ;  and,  in  some  of  very  late 
occurrence,  lunatics  have  been  left  all  night 
bound  to  the  holy  stone,  in  confidence  that 
the  saint  would  cure  and  unloose  them  before 
morning. 


INTRODUCTION  TO  CANTO  SECOND. 

The  scenes  are  desert  now,  etc.  Ettrick  For- 
est, now  a  range  of  mountainous  sheep-walks, 
was  anciently  reserved  for  the  pleasure  of  the 
royal  chase.  Since  it  was  disparked,  the  wood 
has  been,  by  degrees,  almost  totally  destroyed, 
although,  wherever  protected  from  the  sheep, 
copses  soon  arise  without  any  planting.  When 
the  king  hunted  there,  he  often  summoned  the 
array  of  the  country  to   meet   and   assist   his 


M ARM  ION. 


5*5 


sport.  Thus,  in  1528,  James  V.  "  made  procla- 
mation to  all  lords,  barons,  gentlemen,  land- 
wardmen,  and  freeholders,  that  they  should 
compear  at  Edinburgh,  with  a  month's  victuals, 
to  pass  with  the  king  where  he  pleased,  to  dan- 
ton  the  thieves  of  Tiviotdale,  Annandale,  Lid- 
disdale,  and  other  parts  of  that  country ;  and 
also  warned  all  gentlemen  that  had  good  dogs, 
to  bring  them,  that  he  might  hunt  in  the  said 
country  as  he  pleased  :  The  whilk  the  Earl 
of  Argyle,  the  Earl  of  Huntley,  the  Earl  of 
Athole,  and  so  all  the  rest  of  the  gentlemen 
of  the  Highland,  did,  and  brought  their  hounds 
with  them  in  like  manner,  to  hunt  with  the 
king,  as  he  pleased. 

"  The  second  day  of  June  the  king  passed 
out  of  Edinburgh  to  the  hunting,  with  many 
of  the  nobles  and  gentlemen  of  Scotland  with 
him,  to  the  number  of  twelve  thousand  men ; 
and  thefl  past  to  Meggitland,  and  hounded  and 
hawked  all  the  country  and  bounds  ;  that  is 
to  say,  Crammat,  Pap  pert-law,  St.  Mary-laws, 
Carlavirick,  Chapel,  Ewindoores,  and  Long- 
hope.  I  heard  say,  he  slew,  in  these  bounds, 
eighteen  score  of  harts  "  (Pitscottie's  Hist,  of 
Scotland,  folio  ed.  p.  143). 

These  huntings  had,  of  course,  a  military 
character,  and  attendance  upon  them  was  a  part 
of  the  duty  of  a  vassal.  The  act  for  abolishing 
ward  or  military  tenures  in  Scotland  enumer- 
ates the  services  of  hunting,  hosting,  watching, 
and  warding,  as  those  which  were  in  future  to 
be  illegal. 

Then  oft  from  Neivark's  riven  tower,  etc. 
The  tale  of  the  Outlaw  Murray,  who  held  out 
Newark  Castle  and  Ettrick  Forest  against  the 
king,  may  be  found  in  the  Border  Minstrelsy, 
vol.  i.  In  the  Macfarlane  MS.,  among  other 
causes  of  James  the  Fifth's  charter  to  the 
burgh,  is  mentioned  that  the  citizens  assisted 
him  to  suppress  this  dangerous  outlaw 

Lone  Saint  Mary's  silent  lake.  This  beautiful 
sheet  of  water  forms  the  reservoir  from  which 
the  Yarrow  takes  its  source.  It  is  connected 
with  a  smaller  lake,  called  the  Loch  of  the 
Lowes,  and  surrounded  by  mountains.  In  the 
winter  it  is  still  frequented  by  nights  of  wild 
swans;  hence  my  friend  Mr.  Wordsworth's 
lines  :  —  > 

"  The  swans  on  sweet  Saint  Mary's  lake 
Float  double,  swan  and  shadow." 

Near  the  lower  extremity  of  the  lake  are 
the  ruins  of  Dryhope  Tower,  the  birthplace  of 
Mary  Scott,  daughter  of  Philip  Scott  of  Dry- 
hope,  and  famous  by  the  traditional  name  of 
the  Flower  of  Yarrow.  She  was  married  to 
Walter  Scott  of  Harden,  no  less  renowned  for 
his  depredations  than  his  bride  for  her  beauty. 
Her  romantic  appellation  was,  in  latter  days, 
with  equal  justice,  conferred  on  Miss  Mary 
Lilias  Scott,  the  last  of  the  elder  branch  of 
the  Harden  family. 

Our  Lady's  Chapel.  The  Chapel  of  Saint 
Mary  of  the  Lowes  (de  lacubus)  was  situated 
on  the  eastern  side  of  the  lake,  to  which  it 
gives  name.  It  was  injured  by  the  clan  of 
Scott,  in  a  feud  with  the  Cr'anstouns,  but  con- 


tinued to  be  a  place  of  worship  during  the  seven- 
teenth century.  The  vestiges  of  the  building 
can  now  scarcely  be  traced  ;  but  the  burial- 
ground  is  still  used  as  a  cemetery.  A  funeral, 
in  a  spot  so  very  retired,  has  an  uncommonly 
striking  effect.  The  vestiges  of  the  chaplain's 
house  are  yet  visible.  Being  in  a  high  situa- 
tion, it  commanded  a  full  view  of  the  lake, 
with  the  opposite  mountain  of  Bourhope,  be- 
longing, with  the  lake  itself,  to  Lord  Napier. 
On  the  left  hand  is  the  tower  of  Dryhope, 
mentioned  in  a  preceding  note. 

The  Wizard's  grave.  At  one  corner  of  the 
burial-ground  of  the  demolished  chapel,  but 
without  its  precincts,  is  a  small  mound,  called 
Binram's  corse,  where  tradition  deposits  the 
remains  of  a  necromantic  priest,  the  former 
tenant  of  the  chaplainry. 

Loch-skene.  A  mountain  lake  of  considera- 
ble size,  at  the  head  of  the  Moffat-water.  The 
character  of  the  scenery  is  uncommonly  sav- 
age, and  the  earn,  or  Scottish  eagle,  has  for 
many  ages  built  its  nest  yearly  upon  an  islet 
in  the  lake.  Loch-skene  discharges  itself  into 
a  brook,  which,  after  a  short  and  precipitate 
course,  falls  from  a  cataract  of  immense  height 
and  gloomy  grandeur,  called,  from  its  appear- 
ance, the  "  Gray  Mare's  Tail."  The  "  Giant's 
Grave,"  afterwards  mentioned,  is  a  sort  of 
trench  which  bears  that  name,  a  little  way  from 
the  foot  of  the  cataract.  It  has  the  appearance 
of  a  battery,  designed  to  command  the  pass. 


CANTO    SECOND. 

1.  The  breeze,  etc.  In  the  1st  edition  a  period 
was  accidentally  substituted  for  a  comma  at  the 
end  of  line  5,  and  neither  the  author  nor  any 
former  editor  appears  to  have  detected  the 
error,  though  it  makes  nonsense  of  the  passage 
by  changing  the  participle  rolled  (referring  to 
smoke)  to  a  past  tense  of  which  breeze  is  the 
subject  (W.  J.  R.). 

1.  High  Whitby's  cloistered  pile.  The  Abbey 
of  Whitby,  on  the  coast  of  Yorkshire,  was 
founded  a.  d.  657,  in  consequence  of  a  vow  of 
Oswy,  King  of  Northumberland.  It  contained 
both  monks  and  nuns  of  the  Benedictine  order ; 
but,  contrary  to  what  was  usual  in  such  estab- 
lishments, the  abbess  was  superior  to  the  ab- 
bot. The  monastery  was  afterwards  ruined  by 
the  Danes,  and  rebuilded  by  William  Percy,  in 
the  reign  of  the  Conqueror. 

Lindisfarne,  an  isle  on  the  coast  of  North- 
umberland, was  called  Holy  Island,  from  the 
sanctity  of  its  ancient  monastery,  and  from  its 
having  been  the  Episcopal  seat  of  the  see  of 
Durham  during  the  early  ages  of  British  Chris- 
tianity. A  succession  of  holy  men  held  that 
office ;  but  their  merits  were  swallowed  up  in 
the  superior  fame  of  Saint  Cuthbert,  who  was 
sixth  bishop  of  Durham,  and  who  bestowed  the 
name  of  his  "  patrimony  "  upon  the  extensive 
property  of  the  see.  The  ruins  of  the  monas- 
tery, upon  Holy  Island  betoken  great  antiquity. 


586 


NOTES. 


The  arches  are,  in  general,  strictly  Saxon  ;  and 
the  pillars  which  support  them,  short,  strong, 
and  massy.  In  some  places,  however,  there 
are  pointed  windows,  which  indicate  that  the 
building  has  been  repaired  at  a  period  long 
subsequent  to  the  original  foundation.  The 
exterior  ornaments  of  the  building,  being  of  a 
light  sandy  stone,  have  been  wasted,  as  de- 
scribed in  the  text.  Lindisfarne  is  not  prop- 
erly an  island,  but  rather,  as  the  Venerable 
Bede  has  termed  it,  a  semi-isle ;  for,  although 
surrounded  by  the  sea  at  full  tide,  the  ebb 
leaves  the  sands  dry  between  it  and  the  oppo- 
site coast  of  Northumberland,  from  which  it  is 
about  three  miles  distant. 

13.  Three  barons  bold,  etc.  The  popular  ac- 
count of  this  curious  service,  which  was  proba- 
bly considerably  exaggerated,  is  thus  given  in 
A  True  Account,  printed  and  circulated  at  Whit- 
by :  "  In  the  fifth  year  of  the  reign  of  Henry 
II.,  after  the  conquest  of  England  by  William, 
Duke  of  Normandy,  the  Lord  of  Uglebarnby, 
then  called  William  de  Bruce,  the  Lord  of 
Smeaton,  called  Ralph  de  Percy,  with  a  gentle- 
man and  freeholder  called  Allatson,  did,  on 
the  1 6th  of  October,  11 59,  appoint  to  meet  and 
hunt  the  wild  boar,  in  a  certain  wood,  or  desert 
place,  belonging  to  the  Abbot  of  Whitby :  the 
place's  name  was  Eskdale-side  ;  and  the  abbot's 
name  was  Sedman.  Then,  these  young  gen- 
tlemen being  met,  with  their  hounds  and  boar- 
staves,  in  the  place  before  mentioned,  and  there 
having  found  a  great  wild  boar,  the  hounds  ran 
him  well  near  about  the  chapel  and  hermitage 
of  Eskdale-side,  where  was  a  monk  of  Whitby, 
who  was  an  hermit.  The  boar,  being  very 
sorely  pursued,  and  dead-run,  took  in  at  the 
chapel  door,  there  laid  him  down,  and  pres- 
ently died.  The  hermit  shut  the  hounds  out  of 
the  chapel,  and  kept  himself  within  at  his  medi- 
tations and  prayers,  the  hounds  standing  at  bay 
without.  The  gentlemen,  in  the  thick  of  the 
wood,  being  put  behind  their  game,  followed 
the  cry  of  their  hounds,  and  so  came  to  the  her- 
mitage, calling  on  the  hermit,  who  opened  the 
door,  and  came  forth ;  and  within  they  found 
the  boar  lying  dead :  for  which  the  gentlemen, 
in  a  very  great  fury,  because  the  hounds  were 
put  from  their  game,  did  most  violently  and 
cruelly  run  at  the  hermit  with  their  boar-staves, 
whereby  he  soon  after  died.  Thereupon  the 
gentlemen  perceiving  and  knowing  that  they 
were  in  peril  of  death,  took  sanctuary  at  Scar- 
borough ;  but  at  that  time  the  abbot  being  in 
very  great  favor  with  the  king,  removed  them 
out  of  the  sanctuary ;  whereby  they  came  in 
danger  of  the  law,  and  not  to  be  privileged,  but 
likely  to  have  the  severity  of  the  law,  which  was 
♦  hath  for  death.  But  the  hermit  being  a  holy 
and  devout  man,  and  at  the  point  of  death,  sent 
for  the  abbot,  and  desired  him  to  send  for  the 
gentlemen  who  had  wounded  him.  The  abbot 
so  doing,  the  gentlemen  came;  and  the  hermit 
being  very  si.  k  and  weak,  said  unto  them,  'I 
am  sure  to  die  «»i  those  wounds  you  have  given 
me.'  The  abbot  answered,  'They  shall  as 
surely  die  for  the  same.1     Hut  the  hermit  an- 


swered, '  Not  so,  for  I  will  freely  forgive  them 
my  death,  if  they  will  be  content  to  be  enjoined 
the  penance  I  shall  lay  on  them  for  the  safe- 
guard of  their  souls.'  The  gentlemen  being 
present,  bade  him  save  their  lives.  Then  said 
the  hermit:  'You  and  yours  shall  hold  your 
lands  of  the  Abbot  of  Whitby,  and  his  succes- 
sors, in  this  manner  :  That,  upon  Ascension- 
day,  you,  or  some  of  you,  shall  come  to  the 
wood  of  the  Strayheads,  which  is  in  Eskdale- 
side,  the  same  day  at  sun-rising,  and  there  shall 
the  abbot's  officer  blow  his  horn,  to  the  intent 
that  you  may  know  where  to  find  him  ;  and  he 
shall  deliver  unto  you,  William  de  Bruce,  ten 
stakes,  eleven  strout  stowers,  and  eleven  yeth- 
ers,  to  be  cut  by  you,  or  some  for  you,  with  a 
knife  of  one  penny  price;  and  you,  Ralph  de 
Percy,  shall  take  twenty-one  of  each  sort,  to  be 
cut  in  the  same  manner ;  and  you,  Allatson, 
shall  take  nine  of  each  sort,  to  be  cut%s  afore- 
said ;  and  to  be  taken  on  your  backs,  and  car- 
ried to  the  town  of  Whitby,  and  to  be  there 
before  nine  of  the  clock  the  same  day  before 
mentioned.  At  the  same  hour  of  nine  of  the 
clock,  if  it  be  full  sea,  your  labor  and  service 
shall  cease ;  and,  if  low  water,  each  of  you  shall 
set  your  stakes  to  the  brim,  each  stake  one  yard 
from  the  other,  and  so  yether  them  on  each  side 
with  your  yethers ;  and  so  stake  on  each  side 
with  your  strout  stowers,  that  they  may  stand 
three  tides,  without  removing  by  the  force 
thereof.  Each  of  you  shall  do,  make,  and  exe- 
cute the  said  service,  at  that  very  hour,  every 
year,  except  it  be  full  sea  at  that  hour;  but 
when  it  shall  so  fall  out,  this  service  shall  cease. 
You  shall  faithfully  do  this,  in  remembrance 
that  you  did  most  cruelly  slay  me ;  and  that  you 
may  the  better  call  to  God  for  mercy,  repent 
unfeignedly  of  your  sins,  and  do  good  works." 

13.  Edelfled.  She  was  the  daughter  of  King 
Oswy,  who,  in  gratitude  to  Heaven  for  the 
great  victory  which  he  won  in  655,  against  Pen- 
da,  the  pagan  King  of  Mercia,  dedicated  Edel- 
fleda,  then  but  a  year  old,  to  the  service  of  God, 
in  the  monastery  of  Whitby,  of  which  Saint  Hil- 
da was  then  abbess.  She  afterwards  adorned  the 
place  of  her  education  with  great  magnificence. 

13.  And  how  of  thousand  snakes,  etc.  These 
two  miracles  are  much  insisted  upon  by  all  an- 
cient writers,  who  have  occasion  to  mention 
either  Whitby  or  Saint  Hilda.  The  reliques  of 
the  snakes  which  infested  the  precincts  of  the 
convent,  and  were,  at  the  abbess's  prayer,  not 
only  beheaded,  but  petrified,  are  still  found 
about  the  rocks,  and  are  termed  by  Protestant 
fossilists  Ammonite. 

The  other  miracle  is  thus  mentioned  by  Cam- 
den :  "  It  is  also  ascribed  to  the  power  of  her 
sanctity,  that  these  wild  geese,  which,  in  the 
winter,  fly  in  great  flocks  to  the  lakes  and  riv- 
ers unfrozen  in  the  southern  parts,  to  the  great 
amazement  of-  every  one,  fall  down  suddenly 
upon  the  ground,  when  they  are  in  their  flight 
over  certain  neighboring  fields  hereabouts :  a 
relation  I  should  not  have  made,  if  I  had  not 
received  it  from  several  credible  men.  But 
those  who  are  less  inclined  to  heed  supersti- 


MARMION. 


587 


tion,  attribute  it  to  some  occult  quality  in  the 
ground,  and  to  somewhat  of  antipathy  between 
it  and  the  geese,  such  as  they  say  is  between 
wolves  and  scylla-roots.  For  that  such  hidden 
tendencies  and  aversions,  as  we  call  sympathies 
and  antipathies,  are  implanted  in  many  things  by 
provident  nature  for  the  preservation  of  them, 
is  a  thing  so  evident  that  everybody  grants  it." 

14.  His  body's  resting-place,  etc.  Saint  Cuth- 
bert  was,  in  the  choice  of  his  sepulchre,  one  of  the 
most  mutable  and  unreasonable  saints  in  the  Cal- 
endar. He  died  a.  D.  688,  in  a  hermitage  upon 
the  Fame  Islands,  having  resigned  the  bishopric 
of  Lindisfarne,  or  Holy  Island,  about  two  years 
before.  His  body  was  brought  to  Lindisfarne, 
where  it  remained  until  a  descent  of  the  Danes, 
about  793,  when  the  monastery  was  nearly  de- 
stroyed. The  monks  fled  to  Scotland,  with 
what  they  deemed  their  chief  treasure,  the 
relics  of  Saint  Cuthbert.  The  saint  was,  how- 
ever, a  most  capricious  fellow-traveller ;  which 
was  the  more  intolerable,  as,  like  Sinbad's  Old 
Man  of  the  Sea,  he  journeyed  upon  the  shoul- 
ders of  his  companions.  They  paraded  him 
through  Scotland  for  several  years,  and  came 
as  far  west  as  Whithern,  in  Galloway,  whence 
they  attempted  to  sail  for  Ireland,  but  were 
driven  back  by  tempests.  He  at  length  made 
a  halt  at  Norham ;  from  thence  he  went  to  Mel- 
rose, where  he  remained  stationary  for  a  short 
time,  and  then  caused  himself  to  be  launched 
upon  the  Tweed  in  a  stone  coffin,  which  landed 
him  at  Tilmouth,  in  Northumberland.  This 
boat  is  finely  shaped,  ten  feet  long,  three  feet  and 
a  half  in  diameter,  and  only  four  inches  thick; 
so  that,  with  very  little  assistance,  it  might  cer- 
tainly have  swam.  It  still  lies,  or  at  least  did 
so  a  few  years  ago,  in  two  pieces,  beside  the 
ruined  chapel  of  Tilmouth.  From  Tilmouth, 
Cuthbert  wandered  into  Yorkshire;  and  at 
length  made  a  long  stay  at  Chester-le-Street, 
to  which  the  bishop's  see  was  transferred.  At 
length,  the  Danes  continuing  to  infest  the  coun- 
try, the  monks  removed  to  Ripon  for  a  season ; 
and  it  was  in  returning  from  thence  to  Chester- 
le-Street,  that,  passing  through  a  forest  called 
Dunholme,  the  saint  and  his  carriage  became 
immovable  at  a  place  named  Wardlaw,  or 
Wardilaw.  Here  the  saint  chose  his  place  of 
residence  ;  and  all  who  have  seen  Durham  must 
admit  that,  if  difficult  in  his  choice,  he  evinced 
taste  in  at  length  fixing  it. 

1 5 .  Even  Scotland '$  dauntless  king,  etc.  Every 
one  has  heard  that  when  David  I.,  with  his  son 
Henry,  invaded  Northumberland  in  1136,  the 
English  host  marched  against  them  under  the 
holy  banner  of  Saint  Cuthbert ;  to  the  efficacy  of 
which  was  imputed  the  great  victory  which  they 
obtained  in  the  bloody  battle  of  Northallerton, 
or  Cuton-moor. 

15.  'T was  he,  etc.  Cuthbert,  we  have  seen, 
had  no  great  reason  to  spare  the  Danes,  when 
opportunity  offered.  Accordingly,  I  find  in  Sim- 
eon of  Durham,  that  the  saint  appeared  in  a 
vision  to  Alfred,  when  lurking  in  the  marshes 
of  Glastonbury,  and  promised  him  assistance 
and  victory  over  his  heathen  enemies :  a  con- 


solation which,  as  was  reasonable,  Alfred,  after 
the  victory  of  Ashendown,  rewarded  by  a  royal 
offering  at  the  shrine  of  the  saint.  As  to  Wil- 
liam the  Conqueror,  the  terror  spread  before 
his  army,  when  he  marched  to  punish  the  revolt 
of  the  Northumbrians,  in  1096,  had  forced  the 
monks  to  fly  once  more  to  Holy  Island  with  the 
body  of  the  saint.  It  was,  however,  replaced 
before  William  left  the  North ;  and,  to  balance 
accounts,  the  Conqueror  having  intimated  an 
indiscreet  curiosity  to  view  the  saint's  body,  he 
was,  while  in  the  act  of  commanding  the  shrine 
to  be  opened,  seized  with  heat  and  sickness, 
accompanied  with  such  a  panic  terror  that,  not- 
withstanding there  was  a  sumptuous  dinner 
prepared  for  him,  he  fled  without  eating  a  mor- 
sel (which  the  monkish  historian  seems  to  have 
thought  no  small  part  both  of  the«miracle  and 
the  penance),  and  never  drew  his  bridle  till  he 
got  to  the  river  Tees. 

16.  Saint  Cuthbert  sits,  etc.  Although  we  do 
not  learn  that  Cuthbert  was,  during  his  life, 
such  an  artificer  as  Dunstan,  his  brother  in 
sanctity,  yet  since  his  death  he  has  acquired 
the  reputation  of  forging  those  Entrochi  which 
are  found  among  the  rocks  of  Holy  Island,  and 
pass  there  by  the  name  of  Saint  Cuthbert's 
Beads.  While  at  this  task,  he  is  supposed  to 
sit  during  the  night  upon  a  certain  rock,  and  use 
another  as  his  anvil. 

17.  Old  Colwulf,  etc.  Ceolwulf,  or  Colwulf, 
King  of  Northumberland,  flourished  in  the 
eighth  century.  He  was  a  man  of  some  learn- 
ing ;  for  the  Venerable  Bede  dedicates  to  him 
his  Ecclesiastical  History.  He  abdicated  the 
throne  about  738,  and  retired  to  Holy  Island, 
where  he  died  in  the  odor  of  sanctity.  Saint  as 
Colwulf  was,  however,  I  fear  the  foundation  of 
the  penance-vault  does  not  correspond  with  his 
character ;  for  it  is  recorded  among  his  me?no- 
rabilia,  that,  finding  the  air  of  the  island  raw  and 
cold,  he  indulged  the  monks,  whose  rule  had 
hitherto  confined  them  to  milk  or  water,  with  the 
comfortable  privilege  of  using  wine  or  ale.  If 
any  rigid  antiquary  insists  on  this  objection,  he 
is  welcome  to  suppose  the  penance-vault  was 
intended,  by  the  founder,  for  the  more  genial 
purposes  of  a  cellar. 

19.  Tynemouth'' s  haughty  prioress.  That  there 
was  an  ancient  priory  at  Tynemouth  is  certain. 
Its  ruins  are  situated  on  a  high  rocky  point ; 
and,  doubtless,  many  a  vow  was  made  at  the 
shrine  by  the  distressed  mariners,  who  drove 
towards  the  iron-bound  coast  of  Northumber- 
land in  stormy  weather.  It  was  anciently  a 
nunnery ;  for  Virca,  Abbess  of  Tynemouth,  pre- 
sented Saint  Cuthbert  (yet  alive)  with  a  rare 
winding-sheet,  in  emulation  of  a  holy  lady  called 
Tuda,  who  had  sent  him  a  coffin.  But,  as  in 
the  case  of  Whitby,  and  of  Holy  Island,  the  in- 
troduction of  nuns  at  Tynemouth,  in  the  reign 
of  Henry  VIII.,  is  an  anachronism.  The  nun- 
nery at  Holy  Island  is  altogether  fictitious.  In- 
deed, Saint  Cuthbert  was  unlikely  to  permit  such 
an  establishment:  for,  notwithstanding  his  ac- 
cepting the  mortuary  gifts  above  mentioned, 
and  his  carrying  on  a  visiting  acquaintance  with 


588 


NOTES. 


the  Abbess  of  Coldingham,  He  certainly  hated 
the  whole  female  sex ;  and,  in  revenge  of  a 
slippery  trick  played  to  him  by  an  Irish  prin- 
cess, he,  after  death,  inflicted  severe  penances 
on  such  as  presumed  to  approach  within  a  cer- 
tain distance  of  his  shrine. 

25.  Alive  within  the  tomb,  etc.  It  is  well 
known  that  the  religious  who  broke  their  vows 
of  chastity  were  subjected  to  the  same  penalty 
as  the  Roman  vestals  in  a  similar  case.  A 
small  niche,  sufficient  to  enclose  their  bodies, 
was  made  in  the  massive  wall  of  the  convent ; 
a  slender  pittance  of  food  and  water  was  de- 
posited in  it,  and  the  awful  words,  Vade  in 
parem,  were  the  signal  for  immuring  the  crim- 
inal. It  is  not  likely  that,  in  latter  times,  this 
punishment  was  often  resorted  to ;  but,  among 
the  ruins  of  the  abbey  of  Coldingham,  were 
some  years  ago  discovered  the  remains  of  a 
female  skeleton,  which,  from  the  shape  of  the 
niche  and  position  of  the  figure,  seemed  to  be 
that  of  an  immured  nun. 


CANTO   THIRD. 

2.  The  village  inn.  The  accommodations  of  a 
Scottish  hostelrie,  or  inn,  in  the  sixteenth  cen- 
tury, maybe  collected  from  Dunbar's  admirable 
tale  of  The  Friars  of  Berwick.  Simon  Lawder, 
"  the  gay  ostlier,"  seems  to  have  lived  very 
comfortably;  and  his  wife  decorated  her  per- 
son with  a  scarlet  kirtle,  and  a  belt  of  silk  and 
silver,  and  rings  upon  her  fingers ;  and  feasted 
her  paramour  with  rabbits,  capons,  partridges, 
and  Bourdeaux  wine.  At  least,  if  the  Scottish 
inns  were  not  good,  it  was  not  for  want  of  en- 
couragement trom  the  Legislature;  who,  so 
early  as  the  reign  of  James  I.,  not  only  enacted 
that  in  all  boroughs  and  fairs  there  be  hostel- 
laries,  having  stables  and  chambers,  and  pro- 
vision for  man  and  horse,  but  by  another 
statute,  ordained  that  no  man,  travelling  on 
horse  or  foot,  should  presume  to  lodge  any- 
where except  in  these  hostellaries;  and  that  no 
person,  save  innkeepers,  should  receive  such 
travellers,  under  the  penalty  of  forty  shillings, 
for  exercising  such  hospitality. 

13.  Seemed  in  my  ear,  etc.  Among  other 
omens  to  which  faithful  credit  is  given  among 
the  Scottish  peasantry,  is  what  is  called  the 
"dead-bell,"  explained  by  my  friend  James 
Hogg  to  be  that  tinkling  in  the  ear  which  the 
country  people  regard  as  the  secret  intelligence 
of  some  friend's  decease. 

Tfu  Goblin- Hall     A  vaulted  hall  under 

the  ancient  castle  of  Gifford,  or  Yester  (for  it 

bears  either  name  indifferently),  the  construc- 

1   which  has,  from  a  very  remote  period, 

<  1  iUd  to  magic. 

20.  /faro's  burner,  etc.  In  1263,  Haco,  King 
of  Norway,  came  into  the  Firth  of  Clyde  with 
a  powerful  armament,  and  made  a  descent  at 
I  in  Ayrshire.     Here  he  was  encountered 

and  (ideated,  on  the  2d  October,  by  Alexander 
III.     Haco  retreated  to  Orkney,  where  he  died 


soon  after  this  disgrace  to  his  arms.  There  are 
still  existing,  near  the  place  of  battle,  many 
barrows,  some  of  which,  having  been  opened, 
were  found,  as  usual,  to  contain  bones  and 
urns. 

20.  Wizard  habit  strange.  Scott  quotes  Reg- 
inald Scot's  Disroverie  of  Witchrraft,  ed.  1665  : 
"  Magicians,  as  is  well  known,  were  very  curi- 
ous in  the  choice  and  form  of  their  vestments. 
Their  caps  are  oval,  or  like  pyramids,  with  lap- 
pets on  each  side,  and  fur  within.  Their  gowns 
are  long,  and  furred  with  fox-skins,  under  which 
they  have  a  linen  garment  reaching  to  the  knee. 
Their  girdles  are  three  inches  broad,  and  have 
many  cabalistical  names,  with  crosses,  trines, 
and  circles  inscribed  on  them.  Their  shoes 
should  be  of  new  russet  leather,  with  a  cross 
cut  upon  them.  Their  knives  are  dagger- 
fashion  ;  and  their  swords  have  neither  guard 
nor  scabbard." 

20.  A  pentarle.  Scott  again  cites  Reginald 
Scot:  "A  pentacle  is  a  piece  of  fine  linen, 
folded  with  five  corners,  according  to  the  five 
senses,  and  suitably  inscribed  with  characters. 
This  the  magician  extends  towards  the  spirits 
which  he  invokes,  when  they  are  stubborn  and 
rebellious,  and  refuse  to  be  conformable  unto 
the  ceremonies  and  rites  of  magic." 

22.  Bom  upon  that  blessed  night,  etc.  It  is  a 
popular  article  of  faith,  that  those  who  are  born 
on  Christmas  or  Good-Friday  have  the  power  of 
seeing  spirits,  and  even  of  commanding  them. 
The  Spaniards  imputed  the  haggard  and  down- 
cast looks  of  their  Philip  II.  to  the  disagreeable 
visions  to  which  this  privilege  subjected  him. 

25.  The  Elfin  Warrior,  etc.  Gervase  of  Til- 
bury relates  the  following  popular  story  con- 
cerning a  fairy  knight :  "  Osbert,  a  bold  and 
powerful  baron,  visited  a  noble  family  in  the 
vicinity  of  Wandlebury,  in  the  bishopric  of 
Ely.  Among  other  stories  related  in  the  social 
circle  of  his  friends,  who,  according  to  custom, 
amused  each  other  by  repeating  ancient  tales 
and  traditions,  he  was  informed  that  if  any 
knight,  unattended,  entered  an  adjacent  plain 
by  moonlight,  and  challenged  an  adversary  to 
appear,  he  would  be  immediately  encountered 
by  a  spirit  in  the  form  of  a  knight.  Osbert 
resolved  to  make  the  experiment,  and  set  out, 
attended  by  a  single  squire,  whom  he  ordered 
to  remain  without  the  limits  of  the  plain,  which 
was  surrounded  by  an  ancient  entrenchment. 
On  repeating  the  challenge  he  was  instantly 
assailed  by  an  adversary,  whom  he  quickly  un- 
horsed, and  seized  the  reins  of  his  steed.  Dur- 
ing this  operation  his  ghostly  opponent  sprung 
up,  and,  darting  his  spear,  like  a  javelin,  at  Os- 
bert, wounded  him  in  the  thigh  Osbert  re- 
turned in  triumph  with  the  horse,  which  he 
committed  to  the  care  of  his  servants.  The 
horse  was  of  a  sable  color,  as  well  as  his  whole 
accoutrements,  and  apparently  of  great  beauty 
and  vigor.  He  remained  with  his  keeper  till 
cockcrowing,  when,  with  eyes  flashing  fire,  he 
reared,  spurned  the  ground,  and  vanished.  On 
disarming  himself,  Osbert  perceived  that  he 
was  wounded,  and  that  one  of  his  steel-boots 


MARMION. 


589 


was  full  of  blood."  Gervase  adds,  that,  as  long 
as  he  lived;  the  scar  of  his  wound  opened  afresh 
on  the  anniversary  of  the  eve  on  which  he  en- 
countered the  spirit. 


INTRODUCTION  TO  CANTO  FOURTH. 

The  morn  may  find  the  stiffened  swain.  I 
cannot  help  here  mentioning,  that,  on  the  night 
in  which  these  lines  were  written,  suggested,  as 
they  were,  by  a  sudden  fall  of  snow,  beginning 
after  sunset,  an  unfortunate  man  perished  ex- 
actly in  the  manner  here  described,  and  his 
body  was  next  morning  found  close  to  his  own 
house.  The  accident  happened  within  five 
miles  of  the  farm  of  Ashestiel. 

Lamented  Forbes.  Sir  William  Forbes  of  Pit- 
sligo,  Baronet ;  unequalled,  perhaps,  in  the  de- 
gree of  individual  affection  entertained  for  him 
by  his  friends,  as  well  as  in  the  general  respect 
and  esteem  of  Scotland  at  large.  His  Life  of 
Beattie,  whom  he  befriended  and  patronized  in 
life,  as  well  as  celebrated  after  his  decease,  was 
not  long  published,  before  the  benevolent  and 
affectionate  biographer  was  called  to  follow 
the  subject  of  his  narrative.  This  melancholy 
event  very  shortly  succeeded  the  marriage  of 
the  friend  to  whom  this  introduction  is  ad- 
dressed, with  one  of  Sir  William's  daughters. 


CANTO   FOURTH. 

1.  Lantern-led  by  Friar  Rush.  The  name  of 
Friar  Rush  was  due  to  an  old  story  that  the  elf 
once  got  admittance  into  a  monastery  as  a  scul- 
lion, and  played  the  monks  many  tricks. 

7.  Sir  David  Lindesay,  etc.  I  am  uncertain 
if  I  abuse  poetical  license  by  introducing  Sir 
David  Lindesay  in  the  character  of  Lion-Her- 
ald sixteen  years  before  he  obtained  that  office. 
At  any  rate,  I  am  not  the  first  who  has  been 
guilty  of  the  anachronism ;  for  the  author  of 
Flodden  Field  despatches  Dallamount,  which 
can  mean  nobody  but  Sir  David  de  la  Mont,  to 
France,  on  the  message  of  defiance  from  James 
IV.  to  Henry  VIII.  It  was  often  an  office  im- 
posed on  the  Lion  King-at-arms,  to  receive  for- 
eign embassadors  ;  and  Lindesay  himself  did 
this  honor  to  Sir  Ralph  Sadler  in  1 539-1 540. 
Indeed,  the  oath  of  the  Lion,  in  its  first  article, 
bears  reference  to  his  frequent  employment 
upon  royal  messages  and  embassies. 

10.  Crichtoun  Castle.  A  large  ruinous  castle 
on  the  banks  of  the  Tyne,  about  seven  miles 
from  Edinburgh.  As  indicated  in  the  text,  it 
was  built  at  different  times  and  with  a  very 
differing  regard  to  splendor  and  accommoda- 
tion. The  oldest  part  of  the  building  is  a  nar- 
row keep,  or  tower,  such  as  formed  the  mansion 
of  a  lesser  Scottish  baron  ;  but  so  many  addi- 
tions have  been  made  to  it  that  there  is  now  a 
large  court-yard,  surrounded  by  buildings  of 
different  ages.     The  eastern  front  of  the  court 


is  raised  above  a  portico,  and  decorated  with 
entablatures  bearing  anchors.  All  the  stones 
of  this  front  are  cut  into  diamond  facets,  the 
angular  projections  of  which  have  an  uncom- 
monly rich  appearance. 

12.  Earl  Adam  Hepburn.  He  was  the  sec- 
ond Earl  of  Bothwell,  and  fell  in  the  field  of 
Flodden,  where,  according  to  an  ancient  Eng. 
lish  poet,  he  distinguished  himself  by  a  furious 
attempt  to  retrieve  the  day.  See  Flodden  Field, 
ed.  1808  :  — 

"Then  on  the  Scottish  part,  right  proud, 

The  Earl  of  Bothwell  then  out  brast, 
And  stepping  forth,  with  stomach  good, 

Into  the  enemies'  throng  he  thrast ; 
And  Bothwell !  Bothwell  I  cried  bold, 

To  cause  his  souldiers  to  ensue, 
But  there  he  caught  a  wellcome  cold, 

The  Englishmen  straight  down  him  threw. 
Thus  Haburn  through  his  hardy  heart 

His  fatal  fine  in  conflict  found,"  etc. 

14.  For  that  a  messenger  from  heaven,  etc. 
This  story  is  told  by  Pitscottie  with  character- 
istic simplicity  :  "  The  king,  seeing  that  France 
could  get  no  support  of  him  for  that  time,  made 
a  proclamation,  full  hastily,  through  all  the 
realm  of  Scotland,  both  east  and  west,  south 
and  north,  as  well  in  the  Isles  as  in  the  firm 
land,  to  all  manner  of  man  betwixt  sixty  and 
sixteen  years,  that  they  should  be  ready,  within 
twenty  days,  to  pass  with  him,  with  forty  days 
victual,  and  to  meet  at  the  Burrow-muir  of 
Edinburgh,  and  there  to  pass  forward  where 
he  pleased.  His  proclamations  were  hastily 
obeyed,  contrary  the  Council  of  Scotland's 
will;  but  every  man  loved  his  prince  so  well, 
that  they  would  on  no  ways  disobey  him ;  but 
every  man  caused  make  his  proclamation  so 
hastily,  conform  to  the  charge  of  the  king's 
proclamation. 

"  The  king  came  to  Lithgow,  where  he  hap- 
pened to  be  for  the  time  at  the  council,  very 
sad  and  dolorous,  making  his  devotion  to  God, 
to  send  him  good  chance  and  fortune  in  his 
voyage.  In  this  mean  time,  there  came  a  man 
clad  in  a  blue  gown  in  at  the  kirk-door,  and 
belted  about  him  in  a  roll  of  linen  cloth  ;  a  pair 
of  brotikings1  on  his  feet,  to  the  great  of  his 
legs;  with  all  other  hose  and  clothes  conform 
thereto  :  but  he  had  nothing  on  his  head,  but 
syde  2  red  yellow  hair  behind,  and  on  his  haf- 
fets,3  which  wan  down  to  his  shoulders ;  but  his 
forehead  was  bald  and  bare.  He  seemed  to  be 
a  man  of  two-and-fifty  years,  with  a  great  pike- 
staff in  his  hand,  and  came  first  forward  among 
the  lords,  crying  and  speiring4  for  the  king, 
saying,  he  desired  to  speak  with  him.  While, 
at  the  last,  he  came  where  the  king  was  sitting 
in  the  desk  at  his  prayers;  but  when  he  saw 
the  king,  he  made  him  little  reverence  or  salu- 
tation, but  leaned  down  grofling  on  the  desk 
before  him,  and  said  to  him  in  this  manner,  as 
after  follows :  '  Sir  king,  my  mother  hath  sent 
me  to  you,  desiring  you  not  to  pass,  at  this 
time,  where  thou  art  purposed ;  for  if  thou 
does,  thou  wilt  not  fare  well  in  thy  journey, 
nor  none  that  passeth  with  thee.     Further,  she 

1  Buskins.        2  Long.        3  Cheeks.        ■*  Asking. 


590 


NOTES. 


bade  thee  mell J  with  no  woman,  nor  use  their 
counsel,  nor  let  them  touch  thy  body,  nor  thou 
theirs;  for,  if  thou  do  it,  thou  wilt  be  con- 
founded and  brought  to  shame.' 

"  By  this  man  had  spoken  thir  words  unto 
the  king's  grace,  the  evening  song  was  near 
done,  and  the  king  paused  on  thir  words,  study- 
ing to  give  him  an  answer ;  but,  in  the  mean 
time,  before  the  king's  eyes,  and  in  the  presence 
of  all  the  lords  that  were  about  him  for  the 
time,  this  man  vanished  away,  and  could  no 
ways  be  seen  nor  comprehended,  but  vanished 
away  as  he  had  been  a  blink  of  the  sun,  or  a 
whip  of  the  whirlwind,  and  could  no  more  be 
seen.  I  heard  say,  Sir  David  Lindesay,  lyon- 
herauld,  and  John  Inglis  the  marshal,  who  were, 
at  that  time,  young  men,  and  special  servants 
to  the  king's  grace,  were  standing  presently  be- 
side the  king,  who  thought  to  have  laid  hands 
on  this  man,  that  they  might  have  speired  fur- 
ther tidings  at  him.  But  all  for  nought ;  they 
could  not  touch  him;  for  he  vanished  away 
betwixt  them,  and  was  no  more  seen." 

15.  The  wild  buck  bells.  I  am  glad  of  an  op- 
portunity to  describe  the  cry  of  the  deer  by 
another  word  than  braying,  although  the  latter 
lias  been  sanctified  by  the  use  of  the  Scottish 
metrical  translation  of  the  Psalms.  Bell  seems 
to  be  an  abbreviation  of  bellow.  This  sylvan 
sound  conveyed  great  delight  to  our  ancestors, 
chiefly,  I  suppose,  from  association.  A  gentle 
knight  in  the  reign  of  Henry  VIII.,  Sir  Thomas 
Wortley,  built  Wantley  Lodge,  in  Wancliffe 
Forest,  for  the  pleasure  (as  an  ancient  inscrip- 
tion testifies)  of  "listening  to  the  hart's  'bell" 

1  5.  June  saw  his  father's  overthrow.  The  re- 
bellion against  James  III.  was  signalized  by  the 
cruel  circumstance  of  his  son's  presence  in  the 
hostile  army.  When  the  king  saw  his  own 
banner  displayed  against  him,  and  his  son  in 
the  faction  of  his  enemies,  he  lost  the  little 
courage  he  ever  possessed,  fled  out  of  the  field, 
fell  from  his  horse,  as  it  started  at  a  woman 
and  water-pitcher,  and  was  slain,  it  is  not  well 
understood  by  whom.  James  IV.,  after  the 
battle,  passed  to  Stirling,  and  hearing  the 
monks  of  the  chapel  royal  deploring  the  death 
of  his  father,  their  founder,  he  was  seized  with 
deep  remorse,  which  manifested  itself  in  severe 
penances.  The  battle  of  Sauchie-burn,  in  which 
James  III.  fell,  was  fought  iSth  June,  1488. 

25.  The  Borough-moor.  The  Borough,  or 
Common  Moor  of  Kdinburgh,  was  of  very  great 
reaching  from  the  southern  walls  of  the 
city  to  the  bottom  <-l  Braid  Hills.  It  was  an- 
ciently a  fores!  ;  and,  in  that  state,  was  so  great 
a  nuisance,  that  the  inhabitants  of  Edinburgh 
had  permission  granted  to  them  of  building 
wooden  galleries,  projecting  over  the  street,  in 
order  t<>  encourage  them  t<>  consume  the  tim- 
lii<  li  they  seem  to  have  done  very  effec- 
tually. When  James  IV.  mustered  the  array  of 
the  kingdom  there,  in  1513,  the  Borough-moor 
was,  according  to  Hawthornden,  "a  field  spa- 
cious, and  delightful  by  the  shade  of  many 
stately  and  aged  oaks.'  Upon  that,  and  similar 
1  Meddle. 


occasions,  the  royal  standard  is  traditionally  said 
to  have  been  displayed  from  the  Hare  Stone,  a 
high  stone,  now  built  into  the  wall,  on  the  left 
hand  of  the  highway  leading  towards  Braid,  not 
far  from  the  head  of  Bruntsfield-links.  The 
Hare  Stone  probably  derives  its  name  from 
the  British  word  Har,  signifying  an  army. 

27.  Borthwick's  Sisters  Seven.  Seven  culver- 
ins,  so  called,  cast  by  one  Borthwick. 

28.  Scroll,  pennon,  etc.  Each  of  these  feudal 
ensigns  intimated  the  different  rank  of  those 
entitled  to  display  them. 


INTRODUCTION   TO    CANTO    FIFTH. 

Caledonia's  Queen,  etc.  The  Old  Town  of 
Edinburgh  was  secured  on  the  north  side  by 
a  lake,  now  drained,  and  on  the  south  by  a 
wall,  which  there  was  some  attempt  to  make 
defensible  even  so  late  as  1745.  The  gates, 
and  the  greater  part  of  the  wall,  have  been 
pulled  down,  in  the  course  of  the  late  extensive 
and  beautiful  enlargement  of  the  city. 

To  Henry  meek  she  gave  repose.     Henry  VI., 
with  his  queen,  his  heir,  and  the  chiefs  of  his 
family,  fled  to  Scotland  after  the  fatal  battle  of 
;    Towton. 

Great  Bourbon's  relics,  etc.    In  January,  1796, 

the  exiled  Count  d'Artois,  afterwards  Charles 

;    X.  of  France,  took  up  his  residence  in  Holy- 

!    rood,  where  he  remained  until  August,  1799. 

When  again  driven  from  his  country  by  the 

I    Revolution  of  July,  1830,  the  same  unfortunate 

j    prince,  with  all  the  immediate  members  of  his 

family,  sought  refuge  once  more  in  the  ancient 

palace  of  the  Stuarts,  and  remained  there  until 

18th  September,  1832. 


CANTO   FIFTH. 

1.  The  cloth-yard  arrows,  etc.  This  is  no  po- 
etical exaggeration.  In  some  of  the  counties 
of  England,  distinguished  for  archery,  shafts  of 
this  extraordinary  length  were  actually  used. 
Thus,  at  the  battle  of  Blackheath,  between  the 
troops  of  Henry  VII.  and  the  Cornish  insur- 
gents, in  1496,  the  bridge  of  Dartford  was  de- 
fended by  a  picked  band  of  archers  from  the 
rebel  army,  "  whose  arrows,"  savs  Holinshed, 
"were  in  length  a  full  cloth  yard/'  The  Scot- 
tish, according  to  Ascham,  had  a  proverb,  that 
every  English  archer  carried  under  his  belt 
twenty-four  Scots,  in  allusion  to  his  bundle  of 
unerring  shafts. 

2.  The  hardy  burghers.  The  Scottish  bur- 
gesses were,  like  yeomen,  appointed  to  be  armed 
with  bows  and  sheaves,  sword,  buckler,  knife, 
spear,  or  a  good  axe  instead  of  a  bow,  if  worth 
£100;  their  armor  to  be  of  white  or  bright 
harness.  They  wore  white  hats ;  that  is,  bright 
steel  caps,  without  crest  or  visor.  By  an  act 
of  James  IV.,  their  weapon-schawings  are  ap- 
pointed to  be  held  four  times  a  year,  under  the 
aldermen  or  bailiffs. 


M ARM  I  ON. 


59T 


3.  His  arms  were  halbert,  axe.,  or  spear,  etc. 
Bows  and  quivers  were  in  vain  recommended 
to  the  peasantry  of  Scotland,  by  repeated  stat- 
utes ;  spears  and  axes  seem  universally  to  have 
been  used  instead  of  them.  Their  defensive 
armor  was  the  plate-jack,  hauberk,  or  brigan- 
tine ;  and  their  missile  weapons  cross-bows  and 
culverins.  All  wore  swords  of  excellent  tem- 
per, according  to  Patten ;  and  a  voluminous 
handkerchief  round  their  neck,  "  not  for  cold, 
but  for  cutting."  The  mace  also  was  much 
used  in  the  Scottish  army.  When  the  feudal 
array  of  the  kingdom  was  called  forth,  each 
man  was  obliged  to  appear  with  forty  days' 
provision.  When  this  was  expended,  which 
took  place  before  the  battle  of  Flodden,  the 
army  melted  away  of  course.  Almost  all  the 
Scottish  forces,  except  a  few  knights,  men-at- 
arms,  and  the  Border-prickers,  who  formed 
excellent  light  cavalry,  acted  upon  foot. 

9.  His  iron  bell.  Few  readers  need  to  be  re- 
minded of  this  belt,  to  the  weight  of  which 
James  added  certain  ounces  every  year  that  he 
lived.  Pitscottie  founds  his  belief  that  James 
was  not  slain  in  the  battle  of  Flodden,  because 
the  English  never  had  this  token  of  the  iron 
belt  to  show  to  any  Scottishman.  The  person 
and  character  of  James  are  delineated  accord- 
ing to  our  best  historians.  His  romantic  dis- 
position, which  led  him  highly  to  relish  gayety 
approaching  to  license,  was,  at  the  same  time, 
tinged  with  enthusiastic  devotion.  The  pro- 
pensities sometimes  formed  a  strange  contrast. 
He  was  wont,  during  his  fits  of  devotion,  to 
assume  the  dress,  and  conform  to  the  rules,  of 
the  order  of  Franciscans;  and  when  he  had 
thus  done  penance  for  some  time  in  Stirling,  to 
plunge  again  into  the  tide  of  pleasure.  Prob- 
ably, too,  with  no  unusual  inconsistency,  he 
sometimes  laughed  at  the  superstitious  observ- 
ances to  which  he  at  other  times  subjected 
himself. 

10.  (J er  James'1  s  heart,  etc.  It  has  been  al- 
ready noticed  that  King  James's  acquaintance 
with  Lady  Heron  of  Ford  did  not  commence 
until  he  marched  into  England.  Qur  historians 
impute  to  the  king's  infatuated  passion  the 
delays  which  led  to  the  fatal  defeat  of  Flodden. 
The  author  of  The  Genealogy  of  the  Heron  Fam- 
ily endeavors,  with  laudable  anxiety,  to  clear 
the  Lady  Ford  from  this  scandal :  that  she 
came  and  went,  however,  between  the  armies 
of  James  and  Surrey,  is  certain. 

10.  For  the  fair  Queen  of  France,  etc.  "  Also 
the  Queen  of  France  wrote  a  love-letter  to  the 
King  of  Scotland,  calling  him  her  love,  showing 
him  that  she  had  suffered  much  rebuke  in 
France  for  the  defending  of  his  honor.  She 
believed  surely  that  he  would  recompense  her 
again  with  some  of  his  kingly  support  in  her 
necessity ;  that  is  to  say,  that  he  would  raise 
her  an  army,  and  come  three  foot  of  ground  on 
English  ground,  for  her  sake.  To  that  effect 
she  sent  him  a  ring  off  her  finger,  with  fourteen 
thousand  French  crowns  to  pay  his  expenses  " 
(Pitscottie,  p.  no). 

14.  Archibald  Bell-the-Cat.     Archibald  Doug- 


las, Earl  of  Angus,  a  man  remarkable  for  strength 
of  body  and  mind,  acquired  the  popular  name 
of  Bell-the-Cat  upon  the  following  remarkable 
occasion  :  James  the  Third,  of  whom  Pitscottie 
complains  that  he  delighted  more  in  music  and 
"policies  of  building,"  than  in  hunting,  hawking, 
and  other  noble  exercises,  was  so  ill  advised  as 
to  make  favorites  of  his  architects  and  musi- 
cians, whom  the  same  historian  irreverently 
terms  masons  and  fiddlers.  His  nobility,  who 
did  not  sympathize  in  the  king's  respect  for  the 
fine  arts,  were  extremely  incensed  at  the  honors 
conferred  on  those  persons,  particularly  on 
Cochran,  a  mason,  who  had  been  created  Earl ' 
of  Mar;  and  seizing  the  opportunity,  when,  in 
1482,  the  king  had  convoked  the  whole  array 
of  the  country  to  march  against  the  English, 
they  held  a  midnight  council  in  the  church  of 
Lauder,  for  the  purpose  of  forcibly  removing 
these  minions  from  the  king's  person.  When 
all  had  agreed  on  the  propriety  of  this  measure, 
Lord  Gray  told  the  assembly  the  apologue  of 
the  Mice,  who  had  formed  a  resolution  that  it 
would  be  highly  advantageous  to  their  commu- 
nity to  tie  a  bell  round  the  cat's  neck,  that  they 
might  hear  her  approach  at  a  distance ;  but 
which  public  measure  unfortunately  miscarried, 
from  no  mouse  being  willing  to  undertake  the 
task  of  fastening  the  bell.  "  I  understand  the 
moral,"  said  Angus,  "  and,  that  what  we  propose 
may  not  lack  execution,  I  will  bell  the  cat" 

14.  And  chafed  his  royal  lord.  Angus  was 
an  old  man  when  the  war  against  England  was 
resolved  upon.  He  earnestly  spoke  against 
that  measure  from  its  commencement,  and,  on 
the  eve  of  the  battle  of  Flodden,  remonstrated 
so  freely  upon  the  impolicy  of  fighting,  that  the 
king  said  to  him,  with  scorn  and  indignation, 
"  if  he  was  afraid,  he  might  go  home."  The 
earl  burst  into  tears  at  this  insupportable  in- 
sult, and  retired  accordingly,  leaving  his  sons, 
George,  Master  of  Angus,  and  Sir  William  of 
Glenbervie,  to  command  his  followers.  They 
were  both  slain  in  the  battle,  with  two  hundred 
gentlemen  of  the  name  of  Douglas.  The  aged 
earl,  broken-hearted  at  the  calamities  of  his 
house  and  his  country,  retired  into  a  religious 
house,  where  he  died  about  a  year  after  the 
field  of  Flodden. 

15.  Tantallon  Hold.  The  ruins  of  Tantal- 
lon  Castle  occupy  a  high  rock  projecting  into 
the  German  Ocean,  about  two  miles  east  of 
North  Berwick.  The  building  is  not  seen  till 
a  close  approach,  as  there  is  rising  ground  be- 
twixt it  and  the  land.  The  circuit  is  of  large 
extent,  fenced  upon  three  sides  by  the  precipice 
which  overhangs  the  sea,  and  on  the  fourth  by 
a  double  ditch  and  very  strong  outworks.  Tan- 
tallon was  a  principal  castle  of  the  Douglas 
family,  and  when  the  Earl  of  Angus  was  ban- 
ished, in  1527,  it  continued  to  hold  out  against 
James  V.  The  king  was  forced  to  raise  the 
siege,  and  only  afterwards  obtained  possession 
of  Tantallon  by  treaty  with  the  governor,  Sim- 
eon Panango.  When  the  Earl  of  Angus  re- 
turned from  banishment,  upon  the  death  of 
James,  he  again  obtained  possession  of  Tan- 


592 


NOISES. 


tallon,  and  it  actually  afforded  refuge  to  an 
English  ambassador,  under  circumstances  simi- 
lar to  those  described  in  the  text.  This  was  no 
other  than  the  celebrated  Sir  Ralph  Sadler, 
who  resided  there  for  some  time  under  Angus's 
protection,  after  the  failure  of  his  negotiation 
for  matching  the  infant  Mary  with  Edward  VI. 

15.  He  wears  their  motto,  etc.  A  very  an- 
cient sword,  in  possession  of  Lord  Douglas, 
bears,  among  a  great  deal  of  flourishing,  two 
hands  pointing  to  a  heart,  which  is  placed  be- 
twixt them,  and  the  date  1329,  being  the  year 
in  which  Bruce  charged  the  Good  Lord  Doug- 
las to  carry  his  heart  to  the  Holy  Land. 

(21.  Martin  Swart.  A  German  general  who 
commanded  the  auxiliaries  sent  by  the  Duchess 
of  Burgundy  with  Lambert  Simnel.  He  was 
defeated  and  killed  at  Stokefield.  His  name  is 
preserved  by  that  of  the  field  of  battle,  which 
is  called,  after  him,  Swart-moor. 

25.  Dun-Ediris  Cross,  etc.  The  Cross  of 
Edinburgh  was  an  ancient  and  curious  struc- 
ture. The  lower  part  was  an  octagonal  tower, 
sixteen  feet  in  diameter,  and  about  fifteen  feet 
high.  At  each  angle  there  was  a  pillar,  and 
between  them  an  arch,  of  the  Grecian  shape. 
Above  these  was  a  projecting  battlement,  with 
a  turret  at  each  corner,  and  medallions,  of  rude 
but  curious  workmanship,  between  them.  Above 
this  rose  the  proper  Cross,  a  column  of  one 
stone,  upwards  of  twenty  feet  high,  surmounted 
with  an  unicorn.  This  pillar  is  preserved  at  the 
House  of  Drum,  near  Edinburgh.  The  Magis- 
trates of  Edinburgh,  in  1756,  with  consent  of 
the  Lords  of  Session  {proh  pudor  !),  destroyed 
this  curious  monument,  under  a  wanton  pretext 
that  it  encumbered  the  street.  [Since  the  above 
was  written  the  shaft  of  the  old  Cross  has  been 
set  up  within  the  railings  of  St.  Giles's  Church, 
very  near  its  original  site.     W.  J.  R.] 

25.  This  awful  summons  came.  This  super- 
natural citation  is  mentioned  by  all  our  Scottish 
historians.  It  was,  probably,  like  the  appari- 
tion at  Linlithgow,  an  attempt,  by  those  averse 
to  the  war,  to  impose  upon  the  superstitious 
temper  of  James  IV. 

29.  A  venerable  pile.  The  convent  alluded  to 
is  a  foundation  of  Cistercian  nuns  near  North 
Berwick,  of  which  there  are  still  some  remains. 
It  was  founded  by  Duncan,  Earl  of  Fife,  in 
1216. 

31.  Drove  the  monks  forth  of  Coventry,  etc. 
This  relates  to  the  catastrophe  of  a  real  Robert 
de  M.trmion,  in  the  reign  of  King  Stephen, 
whom  William  of  Newbury  describes  with  some 
attributes  of  my  fictitious  hero.  "Homo  belli- 
■  et  astucia  ft' re  nullo  suo  tempore 
impar."  This  baron,  having  expelled  the  monks 
from  the  chun  h  of  Coventry,  was  not  long  of 
experiencing  the  divine  judgment,  as  the  same 
monks,  no  doubt,  termed  his  disaster.  Having 
a  feudal  war  with  the  Earl  of  Chester, 
Mat  mion's  horse  fell,  as  he  charged  in  the  van 
'loop,  against  a  body  of  the  earl's  fol- 
lowers: the  rider's  thigh  being  broken  by  the 
fall,  his  head  was  tut  off  by  a  common  foot- 
soldier,  ere  he  could  receive  any  succor.  * 


INTRODUCTION  TO  CANTO  SIXTH. 

The  savage  Dane,  etc.  The  Iol  of  the  heathen 
Danes  (a  word  still  applied  to  Christmas  in 
Scotland)  was  solemnized  with  great  festivity. 
The  humor  of  the  Danes  at  table  displayed  it- 
self in  pelting  each  other  with  bones  ;  and  Tor- 
faeus  tells  a  long  and  curious  story,  in  the  history 
of  Hrolfe  Kraka,  of  one  Hottus,  an  inmate  of 
the  Court  of  Denmark,  who  was  so  generally 
assailed  with  these  missiles  that  he  constructed, 
out  of  the  bones  with  which  he  was  over- 
whelmed, a  very  respectable  entrenchment 
against  those  who  continued  the  raillery.  The 
dances  of  the  Northern  warriors  round  the  great 
fires  of  pine-trees  are  commemorated  by  Olaus 
Magnus,  who  says  they  danced  with  such  fury, 
holding  each  other  by  the  hands,  that  if  the 
grasp  of  any  failed,  he  was  pitched  into  the 
fire  with  the  velocity  of  a  sling.  The  sufferer 
on  such  occasions  was  instantly  plucked  out, 
and  obliged  to  quaff  off  a  certain  measure  of 
ale,  as  a  penalty  for  "spoiling  the  king's  fire." 

Their  mumming,  etc.  It  seems  certain  that 
the  Mummers  of  England  who  (in  Northumber- 
land at  least)  used  to  go  about  in  disguise  to 
the  neighboring  houses,  bearing  the  then  use- 
less ploughshare  ;  and  the  Guisards  of  Scotland, 
not  yet  in  total  disuse,  present,  in  some  indis- 
tinct degree,  a  shadow  of  the  old  mysteries, 
which  were  the  origin  of  the  English  drama. 
In  Scotland  {me  ipso  teste),  we  were  wont,  dur- 
ing my  boyhood,  to  take  the  characters  of  the 
apostles,  at  least  of  Peter,  Paul,  and  Judas  Is- 
cariot,  which  last  carried  the  bag,  in  which  the 
dole  of  our  neighbor's  plum-cake  was  deposited. 
One  played  a  Champion,  and  recited  some  tra- 
ditional rhymes ;  another  was 

"  Alexander,  king  of  Macedon, 
Who  conquered  all  the  world  but  Scotland  alone ; 
When  he  came  to  Scotland  his  courage  grew  cold, 
To  see  a  little  nation  courageous  and  bold." 

These,  and  many  such  verses,  were  repeated, 
but  by  rote,  and  unconnectedly.  There  was 
also  occasionally,  I  believe,  a  Saint  George. 
In  all  there  was  a  confused  resemblance  of  the 
ancient  mysteries,  in  which  the  characters  of 
Scripture,  the  Nine  Worthies,  and  other  .popu- 
lar personages  were  usually  exhibited. 

The  Highlander,  etc.  The  Daoine  shi\  or 
Men  of  Peace,  of  the  Scottish  Highlanders, 
rather  resemble  the  Scandinavian  Duergar  than 
the  English  Fairies.  Notwithstanding  their 
name,  they  are,  if  not  absolutely  malevolent,  at 
least  peevish,  discontented,, and  apt  to  do  mis- 
chief on  slight  provocation.  The  belief  of 
their  existence  is  deeply  impressed  on  the  High- 
landers, who  think  they  are  particularly  of- 
fended with  mortals  who  talk  of  them,  who 
wear  their  favorite  color  green,  or  in  any  re- 
spect interfere  with  their  affairs.  This  is  par- 
ticularly to  be  avoided  on  Friday,  when,  whether 
as  dedicated  to  Venus,  with  whom,  in  Germany, 
this  subterraneous  people  are  held  nearly  con- 
nected, or  for  a  more  solemn  reason,  they  are 
more  active,  and  possessed  of  greater  power.  - 


MARMION. 


593 


The  Towers  of  Franchemont.  The  journal  of 
the  friend  to  whom  the  Fourth  Canto  of  the 
Poem  is  inscribed,  furnished  me  with  the  fol- 
lowing account  of  a  striking  superstition:  — 

"  Passed  the  pretty  little  village  of  Franche- 
mont (near  Spaw),  with  the  romantic  ruins  of 
the  old  castle  of  the  Counts  of  that  name. 
The  road  leads  through  many  delightful  vales, 
on  a  rising  ground ;  at  the  extremity  of  one  of 
them  stands  the  ancient  castle,  now  the  subject 
of  many  superstitious  legends.  It  is  firmly  be- 
lieved by  the  neighboring  peasantry,  that  the 
last  Baron  of  Franchemont  deposited,  in  one  of 
the  vaults  of  the  castle,  a  ponderous  chest,  con- 
taining an  immense  treasure  in  gold  and  silver, 
which,  by  some  magic  spell,  was  intrusted  to 
the  care  of  the  Devil,  who  is  constantly  found 
sitting  on  the  chest  in  the  shape  of  a  huntsman. 
Any  one  adventurous  enough  to  touch  the  chest 
is  instantly  seized  with  the  palsy.  Upon  one 
occasion  a  priest  of  noted  piety  was  brought 
to  the  vault:  he  used  all  the  arts  of  exorcism 
to  persuade  his  infernal  majesty  to  vacate  his 
seat,  but  in  vain  ;  the  huntsman  remained  im- 
movable. At  last,  moved  by  the  earnestness 
of  the  priest,  he  told  him  that  he  would  agree 
to  resign  the  chest  if  the  exorcisor  would  sign 
his  name  with  blood.  But  the  priest  under- 
stood his  meaning  and  refused,  as  by  that  act 
he  would  have  delivered  over  his  soul  to  the 
Devil.  Yet  if  anybody  can  discover  the  mystic 
words  used  by  the  person  who  deposited  the 
treasure,  and  pronounce  them,  the  fiend  must 
instantly  decamp.  I  had  many  stories  of  a 
similar  nature  from  a  peasant,  who  had  himself 
seen  the  Devil,  in  the  shape  of  a  great  cat." 


CANTO    SIXTH. 

ii.  A  bishop.  The  well-known  Gawain  Doug- 
las, Bishop  of  Dunkeld,  son  of  Archibald  Bell- 
the-cat,  Earl  of  Angus.  He  was  author  of 
a  Scottish  metrical  version  of  the  yEneid,  and 
of  many  other  poetical  pieces  of  great  merit. 
He  had  not  at  this  period  attained  the  mitre. 

II.  The  huge  and  sweeping  brand,  etc.  Angus 
had  strength  and  personal  activity  correspond- 
ing to  his  courage.  Spens  of  Kilspindie,  a 
favorite  of  James  IV.,  having  spoken  of  .him 
lightly,  the  earl  met  him  while  hawking,  and 
compelling  him  to  single  combat,  at  one  blow 
cut  asunder  his  thigh-bone  and  killed  him  on 
the  spot.  But  ere  he  could  obtain  James's 
pardon  for  this  slaughter,  Angus  was  obliged 
to  yield  his  castle  of  Hermitage,  in  exchange  I 
for  that  of  Bothwell,  which  was  some  diminu- 
tion to  the  family  greatness.  The  sword  with 
which  he  struck  so  remarkable  a  blow  was  pre- 
sented by  his  descendant,  James,  Earl  of  Mor- 
ton, afterwards  Regent  of  Scotland,  to  Lord 
Lindesay  of  the  Byres,  when  he  defied  Both- 
well  to  single  combat  on  Carberry-hill. 

14.  Fierce  he  broke  forth,  etc.  This  ebullition 
of  violence  in  the  potent  Earl  of  Angus  is  not 


without  its  examples  in  the  real  history  of  the 
house  of  Douglas,  whose  chieftains  possessed 
the  ferocity  with  the  heroic  virtues  of  a  savage 
state.  The  most  curious  instance  occurred  in 
the  case  of  Maclellan,  tutor  of  Bomby,  who, 
having  refused  to  acknowledge  the  pre-emi- 
nence claimed  by  Douglas  over  the  gentlemen 
and  Barons  of  Galloway,  was  seized  and  impris- 
oned by  the  earl,  in  his  castle  of  the  Thrieve, 
On  the  borders  of  Kirkcudbright-shire.  Sir 
Patrick  Gray,  commander  of  King  James  the 
Second's  guard,  was  uncle  to  the  tutor  of 
Bomby,  and  obtained  from  the  king  "  a  sweet 
letter  of  supplication,"  praying  the  earl  to  de- 
liver his  prisoner  into  Gray's  hand.  When  Sir 
Patrick  arrived  at  the  castle,  he  was  received 
with  all  the  honor  due  to  a  favorite  servant  of 
the  king's  household;  but  while  he  was  at  din- 
ner, the  earl,  who  suspected  his  errand,  caused 
his  prisoner  to  be  led  forth  and  beheaded. 
After  dinner,  Sir  Patrick  presented  the  king's 
letter  to  the  earl,  who  received  it  with  great 
affectation  of  reverence  ;  "  and  took  him  by  the 
hand,  and  led  him  forth  to  the  green,  where  the 
gentleman  was  lying  dead,  and  showed  him 
the  manner,  and  said,  '  Sir  Patrick,  you  are 
come  a  little  too  late ;  yonder  is  your  sister's  son 
lying,  but  he  wants  the  head :  take  his  body,  and 
do  with  it  what  you  will.'  Sir  Patrick  answered 
again  with  a  sore  heart,  and  said,  '  My  lord,  if 
ye  have  taken  from  him  his  head,  dispone  upon 
the  body  as  ye  please : '  and  with  that  called 
for  his  horse,  and  leaped  thereon ;  and  when 
he  was  on  horseback,  he  said  to  the  earl  on  this 
manner,  '  My  lord,  if  I  live,  you  shall  be  re- 
warded for  your  labors,  that  you  have  used  at 
this  time,  according  to  your  demerits.'  At  this 
saying  the  earl  was  highly  offended,  and  cried 
for  horse.  Sir  Patrick,  seeing  the  earl's  fury, 
spurred  his  horse,  but  he  was  chased  near 
Edinburgh  ere  they  left  him :  and  had  it  not 
been  his  lead  horse  was  so  tried  and  good,  he 
had  been  taken  n  ( Pitscottie's  History). 

19.  By  Twisel  Bridge.  On  the  evening  pre- 
vious to  the  memorable  battle  of  Flodden,  Sur- 
rey's head-quarters  were  at  Barmore-wood,  and 
King  James  held  an  inaccessible  position  on 
the  ridge  of  Flodden-hill,  one  of  the  last  and 
lowest  eminences  detached  from  the  ridge  of 
Cheviot.  The  Till,  a  deep  and  slow  river, 
winded  between  the  armies.  On  the  morning 
of  the  9th  September,  151 3,  Surrey  marched  in 
a  northwesterly  direction,  and  crossed  the  Till, 
with  his  van  and  artillery,  at  Twisel-bridge, 
nigh  where  that  river  joins  the  Tweed,  his  rear- 
guard column  passing  about  a  mile  higher,  by 
a  ford. 

24.  Brian  Tunstall.  Sir  Brian  Tunstall, 
called,  in  the  romantic  language  of  the  time, 
Tunstall  the  Undefiled,  was  one  of  the  few 
Englishmen  of  rank  slain  at  Flodden.  He 
figures  in  the  ancient  English  poem,  to  which 
I  may  safely  refer  my  reader  ;  as  an  edition, 
with  full  explanatory  notes,  has  been  published 
by  my  friend  Mr.  Henry  Weber.  Tunstall 
perhaps  derived  his  epithet  of  undefiled  from 
his. white  armor  and  banner,  the  latter  bearing 


38 


594 


NOTES. 


a  white  cock  about  to  crow,  as  well  as  from  his 
unstained  loyalty  and  knightly  faith. 

35.  And  fell  on  Flodden  plain.  There  can  be 
no  doubt  that  King  James  fell  in  the  battle  of 
Flodden.  He  was  killed,  says  the  curious 
French  Gazette,  within  a  lance  s  length  of  the 
Earl  of  Surrey;  and  the  same  account  adds, 
that  none  of  his  division  were  made  prisoners, 
though  many  were  killed,  —  a  circumstance  that 
testifies  the  desperation  of  their  resistance. 
The  Scottish  historians  record  many  of  the 
idle  reports  which  passed  among  the  vulgar  of 
their  day.  Home  was  accused,  by  the  popular 
voice,  not  only  of  failing  to  support  the  king 
but  even  of  having  carried  him  out  of  the  field, 
and  murdered  him.  Other  reports  gave  a  still 
more  romantic  turn  to  the  king's  fate,  and 
averred  that  James,  weary  of  greatness  after 
the  carnage  among  his  nobles,  had  gone  on  a 
pilgrimage,  to  merit  absolution  for  the  death 
of  his  father  and  the   breach  of   his  oath  of 


amity  to  Henry.  Stowe  has  recorded  a  de- 
grading story  of  the  disgrace  with  which  the  re- 
mains of  the  unfortunate  monarch  were  treated 
in  his  time.  An  unhewn  column  marks  the 
spot  where  James  fell,  still  called  the  King's 
Stone. 

36.  When  fanatic  Brook,  etc.  This  storm  of 
Lichfield  Cathedral,  which  had  been  garrisoned 
on  the  part  of  the  king,  took  place  in  the  great 
civil  war.  Lord  Brook,  who,  with  Sir  John 
Gill,  commanded  the  assailants,  was  shot  with 
a  musket-ball  through  the  visor  of  his  helmet. 
The  royalists  remarked  that  he  was  killed  by  a 
shot  fired  from  Saint  Chad's  Cathedral,  and  upon 
Saint  Chad's  Day,  and  received  his  death-wound 
in  the  very  eye  with  which  he  had  said  he  hoped 
to  see  the  ruin  of  all  the  cathedrals  in  England. 
The  magnificent  church  in  question  suffered 
cruelly  upon  this  and  other  occasions;  the 
principal  spire  being  ruined  by  the  fire  of  the 
besiegers. 


©je  laUp  of  tije  Hake, 


The  Lady  of  the  Lake  was  first  published  in 
1810,  when  Scott  was  thirty-nine.  In  1830  the 
following  "  Introduction  "  was  prefixed  to  the 
poem  by  the  author :  — 

"  After  the  success  of  Marmion,  I  felt  inclined 
to  exclaim  with  Ulysses  in  the  Odyssey :  — 

O&tos  pev  8rj  aeOKos  adaros  t!/CTeTeA.e<7Tat,' 
Nvv  aire  aicoirbv  dAAor. 

Odys.  x.  5. 

"  '  One  venturous  game  my  hand  lias  won  to-day  — 
Another,  gallants,  yet  remains  to  play.' 

"The  ancient  manners,  the  habits  and  cus- 
toms of  the  aboriginal  race  by  whom  the  High- 
lands of  Scotland  were  inhabited,  had  always 
appeared  to  me  peculiarly  adapted  to  poetry. 
The  change  in  their  manners,  too,  had  taken 
place  almost  within  my  own  time,' or  at  least  I 
bad  learned  many  particulars  concerning  the 
ancienl  state  of  the  Highlands  from  the  old 
men  of  the  last  generation.  I  had  always 
thought  the  old  Scottish  Gael  highly  adapted 
for  poetical  composition.  The  feuds  and  politi- 
cal  dissensions  which,  half  a  century  earlier, 
would  have  rendered  the  richer  and  wealthier 
part  of  the  kingdom  indisposed  to  countenance 
a  poem,  the  scene  of  which  was  laid  in  the 
Highlands,  were  now  sunk  in  the  generous 
compassion  which  the  English,  more  than  any 
other   nation,  the  misfortunes  of  an 

honorable  foe.  The  Poems  of  Ossi an  had  by 
their  popularity  sufficiently  shown  that  if  writ- 
«  Highland  subjects  were  qualified  to 
1,  mere  national  prejudices 
were,  in  the  present  day,  very  unlikely  to  inter- 
fere with  their  -ii' 


"  I  had  also  read  a  great  deal,  seen  much,  and 
heard  more,  of  that  romantic  country  where  I 
was  in  the  habit  of  spending  some  time  every 
autumn ;  and  the  scenery  of  Loch  Katrine  was 
connected  with  the  recollection  of  many  a  dear 
friend  and  merry  expedition  of  former  days. 
This  poem,  the  action  of  which  lay  among 
scenes  so  beautiful  and  so  deeply  imprinted  on 
my  recollections,  was  a  labor  of  love,  and  it 
was  no  less  so  to  recall  the  manners  and  in- 
cidents introduced.  The  frequent  custom  of 
James  IV.,  and  particularly  of  James  V.,  to 
walk  through  their  kingdom  in  disguise,  af- 
forded me  the  hint  of  an  incident  which  never 
fails  to  be  interesting  if  managed  with  the 
slightest  address  or  dexterity. 

"I  may  now  confess, however,  that  the  employ- 
ment, though  attended  with  great  pleasure,  was 
not  without  its  doubts  and  anxieties.  A  lady, 
to  whom  I  was  nearly  related,  and  with  whom 
I  lived,  during  her  whole  life,  on  the  most 
brotherly  terms  of  affection,  was  residing  with 
me  at  the  time  when  the  work  was  in  progress, 
and  used  to  ask  me  what  I  could  possibly  do  to 
rise  so  early  in  the  morning  (that  happening  to 
be  the  most  convenient  to  me  for  composition). 
At  last  I  told  her  the  subject  of  my  meditations  ; 
and  I  can  never  forget  the  anxiety  and  affection 
expressed  in  her  reply.  «  Do  not  be  so  rash/ 
she  said,  'my  dearest  cousin.  You  are  already 
popular,  —  more  so,  perhaps,  than  you  yourself 
will  believe,  or  than  even  I,  or  other  partial 
friends,  can  fairly  allow  to  your  merit.  You 
stand  high,  — do' not  rashly 'attempt  to  climb 
higher,  and  incur  the  risk  of  a  fall ;  for,  depend 
upon  it,  a  favorite  will  not  be  permitted  even 
to  stumble  with  impunity.'      I  replied  to  this 


THE  LADY  OF   THE  LAKE. 


595 


affectionate    expostulation    in    the    words    of 
Montrose,  — 

"  He  either  fears  his  fate  too  much, 
Or  his  deserts  are  small, 
Who  dares  not  put  it  to  the  touch 
To  gain  or  lose  it  all." 

" '  If  I  fail,'  I  said,  for  the  dialogue  is  strong 
in  my  recollection,  '  it  is  a  sign  that  I  ought 
never  to  have  succeeded,  and  I  will  write  prose 
for  life  :  you  shall  see  no  change  in  my  temper, 
nor  will  I 'eat  a  single  meal  the  worse.  But  if 
I  succeed, 

"  Up  with  the  bonnie  blue  bonnet, 
The  dirk,  and  the  feather,  and  a'!  "  ' 

"  Afterwards  I  showed  my  affectionate  and 
anxious  critic  the  first  canto  of  the  poem,  which 
reconciled  her  to  my  imprudence.  Neverthe- 
less, although  I  answered  thus  confidently,  with 
the  obstinacy  often  said  to  be  proper  to  those 
who  bear  my  surname,  I  acknowledge  that  my 
confidence  was  considerably  shaken  by  the 
warning  of  her  excellent  taste  and  unbiassed 
friendship.  Nor  was  I  much  comforted  by  her 
retractation  of  the  unfavorable  judgment,  when 
I  recollected  how  likely  a  natural  partiality  was 
to  effect  that  change  of  opinion.  In  such  cases 
affection  rises  like  a  light  on  the  canvas,  im- 
proves any  favorable  tints  which  it  formerly 
exhibited,  and  throws  its  defects  into  the 
shade. 

"  I  remember  that  about  the  same  time  a 
friend  started  in  to  '  heeze  up  my  hope,'  like  the 
'  sportsman  with  his  cutty  gun,'  in  the  old 
song.  He  was  bred  a  farmer,  but  a  man  of 
powerful  understanding,  natural  good  taste,  and 
warm  poetical  feeling,  perfectly  competent  to 
supply  the  wants  of  an  imperfect  or  irregular 
education.  He  was  a  passionate  admirer  of 
field-sports,  which  we  often  pursued  together. 

"  As  this  friend  happened  to  dine  with  me  at 
Ashestiel  one  day,  I  took  the  opportunity  of 
reading  to  him  the  first  canto  of  The  Lady  of  the 
Lake,  in  order  to  ascertain  the  effect  the  poem 
was  likely  to  produce  upon  a  person  who  was 
but  too  favorable  a  representative  of  readers  at 
large.  It  is  of  course  to  be  supposed  that  I 
determined  rather  to  guide  my  opinion  by 
what  my  friend  might  appear  to  feel,  than  by 
what  he  might  think  fit  to  say.  His  reception 
of  my  recitation,  or  prelection,  was  rather  singu- 
lar. He  placed  his  hand  across  his  brow,  and 
listened  with  great  attention  through  the  whole 
account  of  the  stag-hunt,  till  the  dogs  threw 
themselves  into  the  lake  to  follow  their  master, 
who  embarks  with  Ellen  Douglas.  He  then 
started  up  with  a  sudden  exclamation,  struck 
his  hand  on  the  table,  and  declared,  in  a  voice 
of  censure  calculated  for  the  occasion,  that  the 
dogs  must  have  been  totally  ruined  by  being 
permitted  to  take  the  water  after  such  a  severe 
chase.  I  own  I  was  much  encouraged  by  the 
species  of  revery  which  had  possessed  so  zealous 
a  follower  of  the  sports  of  the  ancient  Nimrod, 
who  had  been  completely  surprised  out  of  all 


doubts  of  the  reality  of  the  tale.  Another  of 
his  remarks  gave  me  less  pleasure.  He  de- 
tected the  identity  of  the  king  with  the  wander- 
ing knight,  Fitz-James,  when  he  winds  his  bugle 
to  summon  his  attendants.  He  was  probably 
thinking  of  the  lively,  but  somewhat  licentious, 
old  ballad,  in  which  the  denouement  of  a  royal 
intrigue  takes  place  as  follows  :  — 

"  '  He  took  a  bugle  frae  his  side, 
He  blew  both  loud  and  shrill, 
And  four  and  twenty  belted  knights 

Came  skipping  ower  the  hill ; 
Then  he  took  out  a  little  knife, 

Let  a'  his  duddies  fa', 
And  he  was  the  brawest  gentleman 
That  was  amang  them  a'. 

And  we  '11  go  no  more  a  roving,'  etc. 

"  This  discovery,  as  Mr.  Pepys  says  of  the 
rent  in  his  camlet  cloak,  was  but  a  trifle,  yet  it 
troubled  me ;  and  I  was  at  a  good  deal  of  pains 
to  efface  any  marks  by  which  I  thought  my 
secret  could  be  traced  before  the  conclusion, 
when  I  relied  on  it  with  the  same  hope  of  pro- 
ducing effect,  with  which  the  Irish  post-boy  is 
said  to  reserve  a  '  trot  for  the  avenue.' 

"  I  took  uncommon  pains  to  verify  the  accu- 
racy of  the  local  circumstances  of  this  story.  I 
recollect,  in  particular,  that  to  ascertain  whether 
I  was  telling  a  probable  tale  I  went  into  Perth- 
shire, to  see  whether  King  James  could  actually 
have  ridden  from  the  banks  of  Loch  Vennachar 
to  Stirling  Castle  within  the  time  supposed  in 
the  poem,  and  had  the  pleasure  to  satisfy  my- 
self that  it  was  quite  practicable. 

"  After  a  considerable  delay,  The  Lady  of  the 
Lake  appeared  in  June,  1810;  and  its  success 
was  certainly  so  extraordinary  as  to  induce  me 
for  the  moment  to  conclude  that  I  had  at  last 
fixed  a  nail  in  the  proverbially  inconstant  wheel 
of  Fortune,  whose  stability  in  behalf  of  an  indi- 
vidual who  had  so  boldly  courted  her  favors  for 
three  successive  times  had  not  as  yet  been 
shaken.  I  had  attained,  perhaps,  that  degree 
of  reputation  at  which  prudence,  or  certainly 
timidity,  would  have  made  a  halt,  and  discon- 
tinued efforts  by  which  I  was  far  more  likely  to 
diminish  my  fame  than  to  increase  it.  But,  as 
the  celebrated  John  Wilkes  is  said  to  have 
explained  to  his  late  Majesty,  that  he  himself, 
amid  his  full  tide  of  popularity,  was  never  a 
Wilkite,  so  I  can,  with  honest  truth,  exculpate 
myself  from  having  been  at  any  time  a  partisan 
of  my  own  poetry,  even  when  it  was  in  the 
highest  fashion  with  the  million.  It  must  not 
be  supposed  that  I  was  either  so  ungrateful  or 
so  superabundantly  candid  as  to  despise  or 
scorn  the  value  of  those  whose  voice  had  ele- 
vated me  so  much  higher  than  my  own  opinion 
told  me  I  deserved.  I  felt,  on  the  contrary, 
the  more  grateful  to  the  public,  as  receiving 
that  from  partiality  to  me,  which  I  could  not 
have  claimed  from  merit;  and  I  endeavored 
to  deserve  the  partiality  by  continuing  such 
exertions  as  I  was  capable  of  for  their  amuse- 
ment. 

"  It  may  be  that  I  did  not,  in  this  continued 
course  of  scribbling,  consult  either  the  interest 


59<5 


NOTES. 


of  the  public  or  my  own.  But  the  former  had 
effectual  means  of  defending  themselves,  and 
could,  by  their  coldness,  sufficiently  check  any 
approach  to  intrusion ;  and  for  myself,  I  had 
now  for  several  years  dedicated  my  hours  so 
much  to  literary  labor  that  I  should  have  felt 
difficulty  in  employing  myself  otherwise ;  and 
so,  like  Dogberry,  I  generously  bestowed  all 
my  tediousness  on  the  public,  comforting  my- 
self with  the  reflection  that,  if  posterity  should 
think  me  undeserving  of  the  favor  with  which 
I  was  regarded  by  my  contemporaries,  '  they 
could  not  but  say  I  had  the  crown,'  and  had 
enjoyed  for  a  time  that  popularity  which  is  so 
much  coveted. 

"  I  conceived,  however,  that  I  held  the  distin- 
guished situation  I  had  obtained,  however  un- 
worthily, rather  like  the  champion  of  pugilism, 
on  the  condition  of  being  always  ready  to  show 
proofs  of  my  skill,  than  in  the  manner  of  the 
champion  of  chivalry,  who  performs  his  duties 
only  on  rare  and  solemn  occasions.  I  was  in  any 
case  conscious  that  I  could  not  long  hold  a  situa- 
tion which  the  caprice  rather  than  the  judgment 
of  the  public  had  bestowed  upon  me,  and  pre- 
ferred being  deprived  of  my  precedence  by  some 
more  worthy  rival,  to  sinking  into  contempt  for 
my  indolence,  and  losing  my  reputation  by  what 
Scottish  lawyers  call  the  negative  prescription. 
Accordingly,  those  who  choose  to  look  at  the 
Introduction  to  Rokeby,  will  be  able  to  trace 
the  steps  by  which  I  declined  as  a  poet  to 
figure  as  a  novelist;  as  the  ballad  says,  Queen 
Eleanor  sunk  at  Charing  Cross  to  rise  again  at 
Queenhithe. 

"  It  only  remains  for  me  to  say  that,  during 
my  short  pre-eminence  of  popularity,  I  faithfully 
observed  the  rules  of  moderation  which  I  had 
resolved  to  follow  before  I  began  my  course  as 
a  man  of  letters.  If  a  man  is  determined  to 
make  a  noise  in  the  world,  he  is  as  sure  to  en- 
counter abuse  and  ridicule,  as  he  who  gallops 
furiously  through  a  village  must  reckon  on  be- 
ing followed  by  the  curs  in  full  cry.  Experi- 
enced persons  know  that  in  stretching  to  flog 
the  latter,  the  rider  is  very  apt  to  catch  a  bad 
fall ;  nor  is  an  attempt  to  chastise  a  malignant 
critic  attended  with  less  danger  to  the  author. 
On  this  principle,  I  let  parody,  burlesque,  and 
Bqaiba  find  their  own  level ;  and  while  the  latter 
hissed  most  fiercely,  I  was  cautious  never  to 
catch  them  up,  as  schoolboys  do,  to  throw  them 
back  against  the  naughty  boy  who  fired  them 
off,  wisely  remembering  that  they  are  in  such 
cases  apt  to  explode  in  the  handling.  Let  me 
add  that  my  reign  (since  Byron  has  so  called  it) 
was  marked  by  some  instances  of  good-nature 
as  well  as  patience.  I  never  refused  a  literary 
>n  of  merit  such  services  in  smoothing  his 
way  to  the  public  as  were  in  my  power;  and 
I  bad  the-  advantage  —  rather  an  uncommon 
with  our  irritable  race  —  to  enjoy  general 
without  incurring  permanent  ill-will, 
so  far  as  is  known  to  me,  among  any  of  my 
contemporaries. 

M  &BBOTSFORD,  Afrit,  1830." 


CANTO    FIRST. 

2.  Uam-var.  Ua-Var,  as  the  name  is  pro- 
nounced, or  more  properly  Uaigh-mor,  is  a 
mountain  to  the  northeast  of  the  village  of 
Callander,  in  Menteith,  deriving  its  name,  which 
signifies  the  great  den,  or  cavern,  from  a  sort  of 
retreat  among  the  rocks  on  the  south  side,  said, 
by  tradition,  to  have  been  the  abode  of  a  giant. 
In  latter  times  it  was  the  refuge  of  robbers  and 
banditti,  who  have  been  only  extirpated  within 
these  forty  or  fifty  years.  Strictly  speaking, 
this  stronghold  is  not  a  cave,  as  the  name  would 
imply,  but  a  sort  of  small  enclosure,  or  recess, 
surrounded  with  large  rocks  and  open  above 
head. 

7.  Saint  Hubert's  breed.  Scott  quotes  Tuber- 
vile  here :  "  The  hounds  which  we  call  Saint 
Hubert's  hounds  are  commonly  all  blacke,  yet 
neuertheless,  the  race  is  so  mingled  at  these 
days,  that  we  find  them  of  all  colours.  These 
are  the  hounds  which  the  abbots  of  St.  Hubert 
haue  always  kept  some  of  their  race  or  kind,  in 
honour  or  remembrance  of  the  saint,  which  was 
a  hunter  with  S.  Eustace.  Whereupon  we  may 
conceiue  that  (by  the  grace  of  God)  all  good 
huntsmen  shall  follow  them  into  paradise." 

8.  For  the  death-wound,  etc.  When  the  stag 
turned  to  bay,  the  ancient  hunter  had  the  peril- 
ous task  of  going  in  upon,  and  killing  or  dis- 
abling, the  desperate  animal.  At  certain  times 
of  the  year  this  was  held  particularly  dangerous, 
a  wound  received  from  a  stag's  horn  being  then 
deemed  poisonous,  and  more  dangerous  than 
one  from  the  tusks  of  a  boar,  as  the  old  rhyme 
testifies :  — 

"  If  thou  be  hurt  with  hart,  it  brings  thee  to  thy  bier, 
But  barber's  hand  will  boar's  hurt  heal,  therefore  thou 
need'st  not  fear." 

At  all  times,  however,  the  task  was  dangerous, 
and  to  be  adventured  upon  wisely  and  warily, 
either  by  getting  behind  the  stag  while  he  was 
gazing  on  the  hounds,  or  by  watching  an  oppor- 
tunity to  gallop  roundly  in  upon  him  and  kill 
him  with  the  sword. 

14.  And  now,  to  issue  from  the  glen,  etc.  Until 
the  present  road  was  made  through  the  roman-  , 
tic  pass  which  I  have  presumptuously  attempted 
to  describe  in  the  preceding  stanzas,  there  was 
no  mode  of  issuing  out  of  the  defile  called  the 
Trosachs,  excepting  by  a  sort  of  ladder,  com- 
posed of  the  branches  and  roots  of  trees. 

16.  Highland  plunderers.  The  clans  who  in- 
habited the  romantic  regions  in  the  neighbor- 
hood of  Loch  Katrine  were,  even  until  a  late 
period,  much  addicted  to  predatory  excursions 
upon  their  Lowland  neighbors. 

2 3-  ^  gray-haired  sire,  etc.  If  force  of  evi- 
dence could  authorize  us  to  believe  facts  incon- 
sistent with  the  general  laws  of  nature,  enough 
might  be  produced  in  favor  of  the  existence  of 
the  second-sight.  It  is  called  in  Gaelic  Taishi- 
taraugh,  from  Taish,  an  unreal  or  shadowy  ap- 
pearance;  and  those  possessed  of  the  faculty 
are  called  laishatrin,  which  may  be  aptly 
translated   visionaries.     Martin,   a   steady   be- 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE. 


597 


liever  in  the  second-sight,  gives  the  following 
account  of  it :  — 

"The  second-sight  is  a  singular  faculty  of 
seeing  an  otherwise  invisible  object  without 
any  previous  means  used  by  the  person  that 
uses  it  for  that  end :  the  vision  makes  such  a 
lively  impression  upon  the  seers,  that  they 
neither  see  nor  think  of  anything  else,  except 
the  vision,  as  long  as  it  continues;  and  then 
they  appear  pensive  or  jovial,  according  to  the 
object  that  was  represented  to  them. 

"  At  the  sight  of  a  vision,  the  eyelids  of  the 
person  are  erected,  and  the  eyes  continue  star- 
ing until  the  object  vanish.  This  is  obvious  to 
others  who  are  by  when  the  persons  happen 
to  see  a  vision,  and  occurred  more  than  once 
to  my  own  observation,  and  to  others  that  were 
with  me.  ... 

"  If  a  woman  is  seen  standing  at  a  man's  left 
hand,  it  is  a  presage  that  she  will  be  his  wife, 
whether  they  be  married  to  others,  or  unmar- 
ried at  the  time  of  the  apparition. 

"  To  see  a  spark  of  fire  fall  upon  one's  arm 
or  breast  is  a  forerunner  of  a  dead  child  to  be 
seen  in  the  arms  of  those  persons  ;  of  which 
there  are  several  fresh  instances.  ... 

"  To  see  a  seat  empty  at  the  time  of  one's 
sitting  in  it  is  a  presage  of  that  person's  death 
soon  after  "  (Martin's  Description  of  the  Western 
Islands,  1 716,  8vo,  p.  300  et  sea.). 

To  these  particulars  innumerable  examples 
might  be  added,  all  attested  by  grave  and  credi- 
ble authors.  But,  in  despite  of  evidence  which 
neither  Bacon,  Boyle,  nor  Johnson  was  able  to 
resist,  the  Taish,  with  all  its  visionary  proper- 
ties, seems  to  be  now  universally  abandoned  to 
the  use  of  poetry.  The  exquisitely  beautiful 
poem  of  Lochiel  will  at  once  occur  to  the  recol- 
lection of  every  reader. 

25.  Here  for  retreat  in  dangerous  hour,  etc. 
The  Celtic  chieftains,  whose  lives  were  con- 
tinually exposed  to  peril,  had  usually,  in  the 
most  retired  spot  of  their  domains,  some  place 
of  retreat  for  the  hour  of  necessity,  which,  as 
circumstances  would  admit,  was  a  tower,  a  cav- 
ern, or  a  rustic  hut,  in  a  strong  and  secluded 
situation.  One  of  these  last  gave  refuge  to  the 
unfortunate  Charles  Edward,  in  his  perilous 
wanderings  after  the  battle  of  Culloden. 

28.  Ferragus  or  Ascabart.  These  two  sons 
of  Anak  flourished  in  romantic  fable.  The  first 
is  well  known  to  the  admirers  of  Ariosto  by  the 
name  of  Ferrau.  He  was  an  antagonist  of  Or- 
lando, and  was  at  length  slain  by  him  in  single 
combat.  .  .  .  Ascapart,  or  Ascabart,  makes  a 
very  material  figure  in  the  History  of  Bevis  of 
Hampton,  by  whom  he  was  conquered.  His 
effigies  may  be  seen  guarding  one  side  of  the 
gate  at  Southampton,  while  the  other  is  occu- 
pied by  Bevis  himself. 

29.  Though  all  unasked  his  birth  and  name. 
The  Highlanders,  who  carried  hospitality  to  a 
punctilious  excess,  are  said  to  have  considered 
it  as  churlish  to  ask  a  stranger  his  name  or  line- 
age before  he  had  taken  refreshment.  Feuds 
were  so  frequent  among  them,  that  a  contrary 
rule  would  in  many  cases  have  produced  the 


discovery  of  some  circumstance  which  might 
have  excluded  the  guest  from  the  benefit  of  the 
assistance  he  stood  in  need  of. 


CANTO   SECOND. 

1.  A  minstrel  gray.  Highland  chieftains,  to 
a  late  period,  retained  in  their  service  the  bard, 
as  a  family  officer. 

6.  The  Grceme.  The  ancient  and  powerful 
family  of  Graham  (which,  for  metrical  reasons, 
is  here  spelled  after  the  Scottish  pronuncia- 
tion) held  extensive  possessions  in  the  counties 
of  Dumbarton  and  Stirling.  Few  families  can 
boast  of  more  historical  renown,  having  claim 
to  three  of  the  most  remarkable  characters  in 
the  Scottish  annals.  Sir  John  the  Graeme,  the 
faithful  and  undaunted  partaker  of  the  labors 
and  patriotic  warfare  of  Wallace,  fell  in  the 
unfortunate  field  of  Falkirk,  in  1298.  The  cele- 
brated Marquis  of  Montrose,  in  whom  De  Retz 
saw  realized  his  abstract  idea  of  the  heroes  of 
antiquity,  was  the  second  of  these  worthies. 
And,  notwithstanding  the  severity  of  his  tem- 
per, and  the  rigor  with  which  he  executed  the 
oppressive  mandates  of  the  princes  whom  he 
served,  I  do  not  hesitate  to  name  as  the  third, 
John  Graeme,  of  Claverhouse,  Viscount  of  Dun- 
dee, whose  heroic  death,  in  the  arms  of  victory, 
may  be  allowed  to  cancel  the  memory  of  his 
cruelty  to  the  non-conformists,  during  the  reigns 
of  Charles  II.  and  James  II. 

7.  Saint  Modan.  I  am  not  prepared  to  show 
that  Saint  Modan  was  a  performer  on  the  harp. 
It  was,  however,  no  unsaintly  accomplishment; 
for  Saint  Dunstan  certainly  did  play  upon  that 
instrument,  which  retaining,  as  was  natural,  a 
portion  of  the  sanctity  attached  to  its  master's 
character,  announced  future  events  by  its  spon- 
taneous sound. 

8.  Ere  Douglases,  to  ruin  driven.  The  down- 
fall of  the  Douglases  of  the  house  of  Angus, 
during  the  reign  of  James  V.,  is  the  event  al- 
luded to  in  the  text. 

12.  In  Holy- Rood  a  knight  he  slew.  This  was 
by  no  means  an  uncommon  occurrence  in  the 
Court  of  Scotland  ;  nay,  the  presence  of  the 
sovereign  himself  scarcely  restrained  the  fero- 
cious and  inveterate  feuds  which  were  the  per- 
petual source  of  bloodshed  among  the  Scottish 
nobility. 

12.  The  Douglas,  like  a  stricken  deer,  etc.  The 
exiled  state  of  this  powerful  race  is  not  exag- 
gerated in  this  and  subsequent  passages.  The 
hatred  of  James  against  the  race  of  Douglas 
was  so  inveterate,  that  numerous  as  their  allies 
were,  and  disregarded  as  the  regal  authority 
had  usually  been  in  similar  cases,  their  nearest 
friends,  even  in  the  most  remote  part  of  Scot- 
land, durst  not  entertain  them,  unless  under  the 
strictest  and  closest  disguise. 

13.  Maronnati's  cell.  The  parish  of  Kil- 
?naronock,  at  the  eastern  extremity  of  Loch  Lo- 
mond, derives  its  name  from  a  cell,  or  chapel, 
dedicated  to  Saint  Maronock,  or  Marnock,  or 


598 


NOTES. 


Maronnan,  about  whose  sanctity  very  little  is 
now  remembered. 

14.  Bracklinn's  thundering  wave.  This  beau- 
tiful cascade  is  on  the  Keltie,  a  mile  from  Cal- 
lander.   The  height  of  the  fall  is  about  fifty  feet. 

15.  Tine-man.  Archibald,  the  third  Earl  of 
Douglas,  was  so  unfortunate  in  all  his  enter- 
prises, that  he  acquired  the  epithet  of  "  tine- 
man,"  because  he  fined,  or  lost,  his  followers  in 
every  battle  which  he  fought.  He  was  van- 
quished, as  every  reader  must  remember,  in  the 
bloody  battle  of  Homildon-hill,  near  Wooler, 
where  he  himself  lost  an  eye,  and  was  made 
prisoner  by  Hotspur.  He  was  no  less  unfor- 
tunate when  allied  with  Percy,  being  wounded 
and  taken  at  the  battle  of  Shrewsbury.  He 
was  so  unsuccessful  in  an  attempt  to  besiege 
Roxburgh  Castle,  that  it  was  called  the  "  Foul 
Raid,"  or  disgraceful  expedition.  His  ill  for- 
tune left  him  indeed  at  the  battle  of  Beauge,  in 
France  ;  but  it  was  only  to  return  with  double 
emphasis  at  the  subsequent  action  of  Vernoil, 
the  last  and  most  unlucky  of  his  encounters,  in 
which  he  fell,  with  the  flower  of  the  Scottish 
chivalry,  then  serving  as  auxiliaries  in  France, 
and  about  two  thousand  common  soldiers, 
A.  D.  1424. 

15.  Did,  self-unscabbarded,  etc.  The  ancient 
warriors,  whose  hope  and  confidence  rested 
chiefly  in  their  blades,  were  accustomed  to 
deduce  omens  from  them,  especially  from  such 
as  were  supposed  to  have  been  fabricated  by 
enchanted  skill,  of  which  we  have  various  in- 
stances in  the  romances  and  legends  of  the  time. 

17.  Those  thrilling  sounds,  etc.  The  con- 
noisseurs in  pipe-music  affect  to  discover  in  a 
well-composed  pibroch  the  imitative  sounds 
of  march,  conflict,  flight,  pursuit,  and  all  the 
"  current  of  a  heady  fight." 

19.  Roderigh  Vich  Alpine  dhu.  Besides  his 
ordinary  name  and  surname,  which  were  chiefly 
used  in  the  intercourse  with  the  Lowlands, 
every  Highland  chief  had  an  epithet  expressive 
of  his  patriarchal  dignity  as  head  of  the  clan, 
and  which  was  common  to  all  his  predecessors 
and  successors,  as  Pharaoh  to  the  kings  of 
Egypt,  or  Arsaces  to  those  of  Parthia.  This 
name  was  usually  a  patronymic,  expressive  of 
his  descent  from  the  founder  of  the  family.  Thus 
the  Duke  of  Argyll  is  called  MacCallum  More, 
or  the  son  of  Colin  the  Great.  Sometimes,  how- 
ever, it  is  derived  from  armorial  distinctions,  or 
the  memory  of  some  great  feat ;  thus  Lord  Sea- 
forth,  as  chief  of  the  Mackenzies,orClan-Kennet, 
bears  the  epithet  of  Caber-fae,  or  Buck's  Head, 
as  representative  of  Colin  Fitzgerald,  founder 
of  the  family,  who  saved  the  Scottish  king  when 
endangered  by  a  stag. 

20.  The  best  of Loch  Lomond,  etc.  The  Len- 
nox, as  the  district  is  called  which  encircles 
the  lower  extremity  of  Loch  Lomond,  was 
peculiarly  exposed  to  the  incursions  of  the 
mountaineers,  who  inhabited  the  inaccessible 
fastnesses  at  the  upper  end  of  the  lake,  and  the 
neighboring  district  of  Loch  Katrine.  These 
were  often  marked  by  circumstances  of  great 
ferocity. 


CANTO    THIRD. 

1.  The  Fiery  Cross.  When  a  chieftain  de- 
signed to  summon  his  clan  upon  any  sudden  or 
important  emergency,  he  slew  a  goat,  and  mak- 
ing a  cross  of  any  light  wood,  seared  its  extremi- 
ties in  the  fire,  and  extinguished  them  in  the 
blood  of  the  animal.  This  was  called  the  Fiery 
Cross,  also  Crean  Tarigh,  or  the  Cross  of  Shame, 
because  disobedience  to  what  the  symbol  im- 
plied, inferred  infamy.  It  was  delivered  to  a 
swift  and  trusty  messenger,  who  ran  full  speed 
with  it  to  the  next  hamlet,  where  he  presented 
it  to  the  principal  person,  with  a  single  word, 
implying  the  place  of  rendezvous.  He  who  re- 
ceived the  symbol  was  bound  to  send  it  forward, 
with  equal  despatch,  to  the  next  village ;  and 
thus  it  passed  with  incredible  celerity  through  all 
the  district  which  owed  allegiance  to  the  chief, 
and  also  among  his  allies  and  neighbors,  if  the 
danger  was  common  to  them.  At  sight  of  the 
Fiery  Cross,  every  man,  from  sixteen  years  old 
to  sixty,  capable  of  bearing  arms,  was  obliged 
instantly  to  repair,  in  his  best  arms  and  accou- 
trements, to  the  place  of  rendezvous.  He  who 
failed  to  appear  suffered  the  extremities  of  fire 
and  sword,  which  were  emblematically  de- 
nounced to  the  disobedient  by  the  bloody  and 
burnt  marks  upon  this  warlike  signal.  During 
the  civil  war  of  1745-46,  the  Fiery  Cross  often 
made  its  circuit ;  and  upon  one  occasion  it 
passed  through  the  whole  district  of  Breadal- 
bane,  a  tract  of  thirty-two  miles,  in  three  hours. 
The  late  Alexander  Stewart,  Esq.,  of  Inverna- 
hyle,  described  to  me  his  having  sent  round  the 
Fiery  Cross  through  the  district  of  Appine, 
during  the  same  commotion.  The.  coast  was 
threatened  by  a  descent  from  two  English  frig- 
ates, and  the  flower  of  the  young  men  were 
with  the  army  of  Prince  Charles  Edward,  then 
in  England  ;  yet  the  summons  was  so  effectual 
that  even  old  age  and  childhood  obeyed  it;  and 
a  force  was  collected  in  a  few  hours,  so  numer- 
ous and  so  enthusiastic  that  all  attempt  at  the 
intended  diversion  upon  the  country  of  the  ab- 
sent warriors  was  in  prudence  abandoned  as 
desperate. 

4.  That  monk,  of  savage  form  and  face,  etc. 
The  state  of  religion  in  the  middle  ages  af- 
forded considerable  facilities  for  those  whose 
mode  of  life  excluded  them  from  regular  wor- 
ship, to  secure,  nevertheless,  the  ghostly  as- 
sistance of  confessors,  perfectly  willing  to  adapt 
the  nature  of  their  doctrine  to  the  necessities 
and  peculiar  circumstances  of  their  flock.  Rob- 
in Hood,  it  is  well  known,  had  his  celebrated 
domestic  chaplain  Friar  Tuck. 

5.  Of  Brian's  birth,  etc.  Scott  says  that  the 
legend  which  follows  is  not  of  his  invention, 
and  goes  on  to  show  that  it  is  taken  with  slight 
variation  from  "the  geographical  collections 
made  by  the  Laird  of  Macfarlane." 

$.  Snood.  The  snood,  or  riband,  with  which 
a  Scottish  lass  braided  her  hair,  had  an  em- 
blematical signification,  and  applied  to  her 
maiden  character.  It  was  exchanged  for  the 
curch,  toy,  or  coif,  when  she  passed,  by  marriage, 


THE  LADY  OF   THE  LAKE. 


599 


into  the  matron  state.  But  if  the  damsel  was 
so  unfortunate  as  to  lose  pretensions  to  the 
name  of  maiden  without  gaining  a  right  to  that 
of  matron,  she  was  neither  permitted  to  use 
the  snood,  nor  advanced  to  the  graver  dignity 
of  the  curch. 

7.  The  desert  gave  him,  etc.  In  adopting  the 
legend  concerning  the  birth  of  the  Founder  of 
the  Church  of  Kilmallie,  the  author  has  en- 
deavored to  trace  the  effects  which  such  a 
belief  was  likely  to  produce  in  a  barbarous  age 
on  the  person  to  whom  it  related.  It  seems 
likely  that  he  must  have  become  a  fanatic,  or 
an  impostor,  or  that  mixture  of  both  which 
forms  a  more  frequent  character  than  either  of 
them,  as  existing  separately. 

7.  The  fatal  Ben- Slue's  boding  scream.  Most 
great  families  in  the  Highlands  were  supposed 
to  have  a  tutelar,  or  rather  a  domestic,  spirit, 
attached  to  them,  who  took  an  interest  in  their 
prosperity,  and  intimated,  by  its  wailings,  any 
approaching  disaster.  That  of  Grant  of  Grant 
was  called  May  Moullach,  and  appeared  in  the 
form  of  a  girl,  who  had  her  arm  covered  with 
hair.  Grant  of  Rothiemurcus  had  an  attend- 
ant called  Bodach-an-dun,  or  the  Ghost  of  the 
Hill;  and  many  other  examples  might  be  men- 
tioned. The  Ben-Shie  implies  the  female  fairy 
whose  lamentations  were  often  supposed  to 
precede  the  death  of  a  chieftain  of  particular 
families.  When  she  is  visible,  it  is  in  the  form 
of  an  old  woman,  with  a  blue  mantle  and  stream- 
ing hair.  A  superstition  of  the  same  kind  is, 
I  believe,  universally  received  by  the  inferior 
ranks  of  the  native  Irish. 

7.  Sounds,  too,  had  come,  etc.  A  presage  of 
the  kind  alluded  to  in  the  text,  is  still  believed 
to  announce  death  to  the  ancient  Highland 
family  of  M'Lean  of  Lochbuy.  The  spirit  of  an 
ancestor  slain  in  battle  is  heard  to  gallop  along 
a  stony  bank,  and  then  to  ride  thrice  around 
the  family  residence,  ringing  his  fairy  bridle,  and 
thus  intimating  the  approaching  calamity. 

8.  Jnch-Cailliach,  the  Isle  of  Nuns,  or  of  Old 
Women,  is  a  most  beautiful  island  at  the  lower 
extremity  of  Loch  Lomond.  The  church  be- 
longing to  the  former  nunnery  was  long  used 
as  the  place  of  worship  for  the  parish  of  Bu- 
chanan, but  scarce  any  vestiges  of  it  now  re- 
main. The  burial-ground  continues  to  be  used, 
and  contains  the  family  places  of  sepulture  of 
several  neighboring  clans. 

13.  The  dun  deer's  hide,  etc.  The  present 
brogue  of  the  Highlanders  is  made  of  half-dried 
leather,  with  holes  to  admit  and  let  out  the 
water;  for  walking  the  moors  dry-shod  is  a 
matter  altogether  out  of  question.  The  an- 
cient buskin  was  still  ruder,  being  made  of  un- 
dressed deer's  hide,  with  the  hair  outwards,  — 
a  circumstance  which  procured  the  Highlanders 
the  well-known  epithet  of  Red-shanks. 

16.  Coronach.  The  Coronach  of  the  High- 
landers, like  the  Ululatus  of  the  Romans,  and 
the  Ululoo  of  the  Irish,  was  a  wild  expression 
of  lamentation,  poured  forth  by  the  mourners 
over  the  body  of  a  departed  friend.  When 
the  words  of  it  were  articulate,  they  expressed 


the  praises  of  the  deceased,  and  the  loss  the 
clan  would  sustain  by  his  death. 

19.  Benledi  saw  the  cross  of  fire,  etc.  The 
first  stage  of  the  Fiery  Cross  is  to  Duncraggan, 
a  place  near  the  Brigg  of  Turk,  where  a  short 
stream  divides  Loch  Achray  from  Loch  Ven- 
nachar.  From  thence  it  passes  towards  Cal- 
lander, and  then,  turning  to  the  left  up  the 
pass  of  Leny,  is  consigned  to  Norman  at  the 
Chapel  of  Saint  Bride,  which  stood  on  a  small 
and  romantic  knoll  in  the  middle  of  the  valley, 
called  Strath-Ire.  Tombea  and  Arnandave,  or 
Ardmandave,  are  names  of  places  in  the  vicinity. 
The  alarm  is  then  supposed  to  pass  along  the 
Lake  of  Lubnaig,  and  through  the  various  glens 
in  the  district  of  Balquidder,  including  the  neigh- 
boring tracts  of  Glenfinlas  and  Strath-Gartney. 

24.  Balquidder.  It  may  be  necessary  to  in- 
form the  Southern  reader  that  the  heath  on  the 
Scottish  moorlands  is  often  set  fire  to,  that  the 
sheep  may  have  the  advantage  of  the  young 
herbage  produced,  in  room  of  the  tough  old 
heather  plants.  This  custom  (execrated  by 
sportsmen)  produces  occasionally  the  most 
beautiful  nocturnal  appearances,  similar  al- 
most to  the  discharge  of  a  volcano.  This 
simile  is  not  new  to  poetry.  The  charge  of 
a  warrior,  in  the  fine  ballad  of  Hardyknute, 
is  said  to  be  "  like  fire  to  heather  set." 

25.  Coir-nan-  Uriskin.  This  is  a  very  steep 
and  most  romantic  hollow  in  the  mountain  of 
Benvenue,  overhanging  the  southeastern  ex- 
tremity of  Loch  Katrine.-  It  is  surrounded 
with  stupendous  rocks,  and  overshadowed  with 
birch-trees,  mingled  with  oaks,  the  spontaneous 
production  of  the  mountain,  even  where  its 
cliffs  appear  denuded  of  soil.  A  dale  in  so 
wild  a  situation,  and  amid  a  people  whose 
genius  bordered  on  the  romantic,  did  not  re- 
main without  appropriate  deities.  The  name 
literally  implies  the  Corri,  or  Den,  of  the  Wild 
or  Shaggy  Men.  Tradition  has  ascribed  to  the 
Urisk,  who  gives  name  to  the  cavern,  a  figure  be- 
tween a  goat  and  a  man  ;  in  short,  however  much 
the  classical  reader  maybe  startled,  precisely  that 
of  the  Grecian  Satyr.  The  Urisk  seems  not  to 
have  inherited,  with  the  form,  the  petulance  of 
the  sylvan  deity  of  the  classics  ;  his  occupation, 
on  the  contrary, resembled  those  of  Milton's  Lu fa- 
bar  Fiend,  or  of  the  Scottish  Brownie,  though  he 
differed  from  both  in  name  and  appearance. 


CANTO   FOURTH. 

4.  The  Taghairm.  The  Highlanders,  like 
all  rude  people,  had  various  superstitious 
modes  of  inquiring  into  futurity.  One  of  the 
most  noted  was  the  Taghairm,  mentioned  in 
the  text.  A  person  was  wrapped  up  in  the 
skin  of  a  newly  slain  bullock,  and  deposited 
beside  a  waterfall,  or  at  the  bottom  of  a  pre- 
cipice, or  in  some  other  strange,  wild,  and 
unusual  situation,  where  the  scenery  around 
him  suggested  nothing  but  objects  of  horror. 
In  this  situation  he  revolved  in  his  mind  the 


6oo 


NOTES. 


question  proposed ;  and  whatever  was  im- 
pressed upon  him  by  his  exalted  imagination, 
passed  for  the  inspiration  of  the  disembodied 
spirits  who  haunt  these  desolate  recesses. 

5.  The  Herd's  Targe.  There  is  a  rock  so 
named  in  the  Forest  of  Glenfinlas,  by  which 
a  tumultuary  cataract  takes  its  course.  This 
wild  place  is  said  in  former  times  to  have 
afforded  refuge  to  an  outlaw,  who  was  sup- 
plied with  provisions  by  a  woman,  who  lowered 
them  down  from  the  brink  of  the  precipice 
above.  His  water  he  procured  for  himself, 
by  letting  down  a  flagon  tied  to  a  string  into 
the  black  pool  beneath  the  fall. 

6.  Which  spills  the  foremost  foemarCs  life. 
Though  this  be  in  the  text  described  as  a 
response  of  the  Taghairm,  or  Oracle  of  the 
Hide,  it  was  of  itself  an  augury  frequently 
attended  to.  The  fate  of  the  battle  was  often 
anticipated,  in  the  imagination  of  the  combat- 
ants, by  observing  which  party  first  shed  blood. 
It  is  said  that  the  Highlanders  under  Montrose 
were  so  deeply  imbued  with  this  notion,  that 
on  the  morning  of  the  battle  of  Tippermoor 
they  murdered  a  defenceless  herdsman,  whom 
they  found  in  the  fields,  merely  to  secure  an 
advantage  of  so  much  consequence  to  their  party. 

13.  1 he  fairies'  fatal  green.  As  the  Daoine 
Shi\  or  Men  of  Peace,  wore  green  habits,  they 
were  supposed  to  take  offence  when  any  mor- 
tals ventured  to  assume  their  favorite  color. 
Indeed,  from  some  reason,  which  has  been 
perhaps  originally  a  general  superstition,  green 
is  held  in  Scotland  to  be  unlucky  to  particular 
tribes  and  counties.  The  Caithness  men,  who 
hold  this  belief,  allege  as  a  reason  that  their 
bands  wore  that  color  when  they  were  cut  off 
at  the  battle  of  Flodden  ;  and  for  the  same 
reason  they  avoid  crossing  the  Ord  on  a  Mon- 
day, being  the  day  of  the  week  on  which  their 
ill-omened  array  set  forth.  Green  is  also  dis- 
liked by  those  of  the  name  of  Ogilvy  ;  but 
more  especially  it  is  held  fatal  to  the  whole 
clan  of  Grahame.  It  is  remembered  of  an 
aged  gentleman  of  that  name  that  when  his 
horse  fell  in  a  fox-chase,  he  accounted  for  it 
at  once  by  observing  that  the  whipcord  attached 
to  his  lash  was  of  this  unlucky  color. 

13.  Wert  christened  man.  The  Elves  were 
supposed  greatly  to  envy  the  privileges  ac- 
quired by  Christian  initiation,  and  they  gave 
to  those  mortals  who  had  fallen  into  their 
power  a  certain  precedence,  founded  upon  this 
advantageous  distinction. 

30.  Who  ever  recked,  etc.  Saint  John  actually 
used  this  illustration  when  engaged  in  confuting 
the  pica  of  law  proposed  for  the  unfortunate 
Earl  of  Strafford  :  "  It  was  true,  we  gave  laws 
to  hares  and  deer,  because  they  are  beasts  of 
chase  ;  but  it  was  never  accounted  either  cruelty 
or  foul  play  to  knock  foxes  or  wolves  on  the 
head  as  they  can  be  found,  because  they  are 
prey,  fa  a  word,  the  law  and  hu- 
manity were  alike :  the  one  being  more  fal- 
lacious, and  the  other  more  barbarous,  than  in 
any  age  had  been  vented  in  such  an  authority" 
(Clarendon's  History  of  the  Rebellion). 


31.  The  hardened  flesh  of  mountain  deer.  The 
Scottish  Highlanders,  in  former  times,  had  a 
concise  mode  of  cooking  their  venison,  or 
rather  of  dispensing  with  cooking  it,  which 
appears  greatly  to  have  surprised  the  French, 
whom  chance -made  acquainted  with  it.  The 
Vidame  of  Chartres,  when  a  hostage  in  Eng- 
land, during  the  reign  of  Edward  VI.,  was  per- 
mitted to  travel  into  Scotland,  and  penetrated 
as  far  as  to  the  remote  Highlands  (au  fin  fond 
des  Sauvages).  After  a  great  hunting-party,  at 
which  a  most  wonderful  quantity  of  game  was 
destroyed,  he  saw  these  Scottish  savages  devour 
a  part  of  their  venison  raw,  without  any  farther 
preparation  than  compressing  it  between  two 
batons  of  wood,  so  as  to  force  out  the  blood, 
and  render  it  extremely  hard,  This  they  reck- 
oned a  great  delicacy  ;  and  when  the  Vidame 
partook  of  it,  his  compliance  with  their  taste 
rendered  him  extremely  popular. 


CANTO   FIFTH. 

6.  Albany.  There  is  scarcely  a  more  disor- 
derly period  of  Scottish  history  than  that  which 
succeeded  the  battle  of  Flodden,  and  occupied 
the  minority  of  James  V.  Feuds  of  ancient 
standing  broke  out  like  old  wounds,  and  every 
quarrel  among  the  independent  nobility,  which 
occurred  daily,  and  almost  hourly,  gave  r4se  to 
fresh  bloodshed.  / 

II.  /  only  meant,  etc.  This  incident,  like 
some  other  passages  in  the  poem,  illustrative 
of  the  character  of  the  ancient  Gael,  is  not 
imaginary,  but  borrowed  from  fact.  The  High- 
landers, with  the  inconsistency  of  most  nations 
in  the  same  state,  were  alternately  capable  of 
great  exertions  of  generosity  and  of  cruel  re- 
venge and  perfidy.  Early  in  the  last  century, 
John  Gunn,  a  noted  Highland  robber,  infested 
Inverness-shire,  and  levied  black-mail  up  to  the 
walls  of  the  provincial  capital.  A  garrison  was 
then  maintained  in  the  castle  of  that  town,  and 
their  pay  (country  banks  being  unknown)  was 
usually  transmitted  in  specie  under  the  guard 
of  a  small  escort.  It  chanced  that  the  officer 
who  commanded  this  little  party  was  unexpect- 
edly obliged  to  halt,  about  thirty  miles  from 
Inverness,  at  a  miserable  inn.  About  nightfall, 
a  stranger  in  the  Highland  dress,  and  of  very 
prepossessing  appearance,  entered  the  same 
house.  Separate  accommodation  being  impos- 
sible, the  Englishman  offered  the  newly  arrived 
guest  a  part  of  his  supper,  which  was  accepted 
with  reluctance.  By  the  conversation  he  found 
his  new  acquaintance  knew  well  all  the  passes 
of  the  country,  which  induced  him  eagerly  to 
request  his  company  on  the  ensuing  morning. 
He  neither  disguised  his  business  and  charge, 
nor  his  apprehensions  of  that  celebrated  free- 
booter, John  Gunn.  The  Highlander  hesitated 
a  moment,  and  then  frankly  consented  to  be  his 
guide.  Forth  they  set  in  the  morning  ;  and  in 
travelling  through  a  solitary  and  dreary  glen, 
the   discourse   again  turned   on   John    Gunn. 


THE  LADY  OF   THE  LAKE. 


601 


"  Would  you  like  to  see  him  ? "  said  the  guide  ; 
and  without  waiting  an  answer  to  this  alarming 
question  he  whistled,  and  the  English  officer, 
with  his  small  party,  were  surrounded  by  a  body 
of  Highlanders,  whose  numbers  put  resistance 
out  of  question,  and  who  were  all  well  armed. 
"  Stranger,"  resumed  the  guide,  "  I  am  that 
very  John  Gunn  by  whom  you  feared  to  be  in- 
tercepted, and  not  without  cause  ;  for  I  came 
to  the  inn  last  night  with  the  express  purpose 
of  learning  your  route,  that  I  and  my  followers 
might  ease  you  of  your  charge  by  the  road. 
But  I  am  incapable  of  betraying  the  trust  you 
reposed  in  me,  and  having  convinced  you  that 
you  were  in  my  power,  I  can  only  dismiss  you 
unplundered  and  uninjured."  He  then  gave 
the  officer  directions  for  his  journey,  and  dis- 
appeared with  his  party  as  suddenly  as  they  had 
presented  themselves. 

12.  Three  mighty  lakes.  The  torrent  which 
discharges  itself  from  Loch  Vennachar,  the 
lowest  and  eastmost  of  the  three  lakes  which 
form  the  scenery  adjoining  to  the  Trosachs, 
sweeps  through  a  flat  and  extensive  moor, 
called  Bochastle.  Upon  a  small  eminence 
called  the  Dun  of  Bochastle,  and  indeed  on 
the  plain  itself,  are  some  intrenchments  which 
have  been  thought  Roman. 

15.  His  targe.  Around  target  of  light-wood, 
covered  with  strong  leather  and  studded  with 
brass  or  iron,  was  a  necessary  part  of  a  High- 
lander's equipment.  In  charging  regular  troops 
they  received  the  thrust  of  the  bayonet  in  this 
buckler,  twisted  it  aside,  and  used  the  broad- 
sword against  the  encumbered  soldier.  In  the 
civil  war  of  1745  most  of  the  front  rank  of  the 
clans  were  thus  armed;  and  Captain  Grose 
(Military  Antiquities,  vol.  i.  p.  164)  informs  us 
that  in  1747  the  privates  of  the  43d  regiment, 
then  in  Flanders,  were  for  the  most  part  per- 
mitted to  carry  targets.  A  person  thus  armed 
had  a  considerable  advantage  in  private  fray. 

20.  The  burghers  hold  their  sports  to-day.  Ev- 
ery burgh  of  Scotland  of  the  least  note,  but 
more  especially  the  considerable  towns,  had 
their  solemn  .play,  or  festival,  when  feats  of 
archery  were  exhibited,  and  prizes  distributed 
to  those  who  excelled  in  wrestling,  hurling  the 
bar,  and  the  other  gymnastic  exercises  of  the 
period.  Stirling,  a  usual  place  of  royal  resi- 
dence, was  not  likely  to  be  deficient  in  pomp 
upon  such  occasions,  especially  since  James  V. 
was  very  partial  to  them.  His  ready  partici- 
pation in  these  popular  amusements  was  one 
cause  of  his  acquiring  the  title  of  the  King  of 
the  Commons,  or  Rex  Plebeiorum,  as  Lesley  has 
latinized  it.  The  usual  prize  to  the  best  shooter 
was  a  silver  arrow. 

22.  Robin  Hood.  The  exhibition  of  this  re- 
nowned outlaw  and  his  band  was  a  favorite 
frolic  at  such  festivals  as  we  are  describing. 
This  sporting,  in  which  kings  did  not  disdain 
to  be  actors,  was  prohibited  in  Scotland  upon 
the  Reformation,  by  a  statute  of  the  6th  parlia- 
ment of  Queen  Mary,  c.  61,  a.  d.  1555,  which 
ordered,  under  heavy  penalties,  that  "na  man- 
ner of  person   be   chosen    Robert   Hude,  nor 


Little  John,  Abbot  of  Unreason,  Queen  of  May, 
nor  otherwise."  But  in  1561  the  "rascal  mul- 
titude," says  John  Knox,  "  were  stirred  up  to 
make  a  Robin  Hude,  whilk  enormity  was  of 
mony  years  left  and  damned  by  statute  and  act 
of  Parliament ;  yet  would  they  not  be  forbid- 
den." Accordingly  they  raised  a  very  serious 
tumult,  and  at  length  made  prisoners  the  magis- 
trates who  endeavored  to  suppress  it,  and  would 
not  release  them  till  they  extorted  a  formal 
promise  that  no  one  should  be  punished  for  his 
share  of  the  disturbance.  It  would  seem,  from 
the  complaints  of  the  General  Assembly  of  the 
Kirk,  that  these  profane  festivities  were  con- 
tinued down  to  1592  (Book  of  the  Universal 
Kirk,  p.  414). 


CANTO   SIXTH. 

3.  Adventurers  they,  etc.  The  Scottish  ar- 
mies consisted  chiefly  of  the  nobility  and  bar- 
ons, with  their  vassals,  who  held  lands  under 
them  for  military  service  by  themselves  and 
their  tenants.  The  patriarchal  influence  exer- 
cised by  the  heads  of  clans  in  the  Highlands 
and  Borders  was  of  a  different  nature,  and 
sometimes  at  variance  with  feudal  principles. 
It  flowed  from  the  Patria  Potestas,  exercised  by 
the  chieftain  as  representing  the  original  father 
of  the  whole  name,  and  was  often  obeyed  in 
contradiction  to  the  feudal  superior.  James 
V.  seems  first  to  have  introduced,  in  addition 
to  the  militia  furnished  from  these  sources,  the 
service  of  a  small  number  of  mercenaries,  who 
formed  a  body  guard,  called  the  Foot- Band. 

6.  The  leader  of  a  juggler  band.  The  jong- 
leurs, or  jugglers,  as  we  learn  from  the  elabo- 
rate work  of  the  late  Mr.  Strutt,  on  the  sports 
and  pastimes  of  the  people  of  England,  used  to 
call  in  the  aid  of  various  assistants,  to  render 
these  performances  as  captivating  as  possible. 
The  glee-maiden  was  a  necessary  attendant. 
Her  duty  was  tumbling  and  dancing ;  and  there- 
fore the  Anglo-Saxon  version  of  Saint  Mark's 
Gospel  states  Herodias  to  have  vaulted  or  tum- 
bled before  King  Herod. 

14.  Strike  it!  There  are  several  instances, 
at  least  in  tradition,  of  persons  so  much  at- 
tached to  particular  tunes  as  to  require  to  hear 
them  on  their  death-bed.  Such  an  anecdote  is 
mentioned  by  the  late  Mr.  Riddel  of  Glenrid- 
del,  in  his  collection  of  Border  tunes,  respect- 
ing an  air  called  the  Dandling  of  the  Bairns, 
for  which  a  certain  Gallovidian  laird  is  said  to 
have  evinced  this  strong  mark  of  partiality. 
It  is  popularly  told  of  a  famous  freebooter,  that 
he  composed  the  tune  known  by  the  name  of 
Macpherson's  Rant  while  under  sentence  of 
death,  and  played  it  at  the  gallows-tree.  Some 
spirited  words  have  been  adapted  to  it  by 
Burns.  A  similar  >tory  is  recounted  of  a  Welsh 
bard,  who  composed  and  played  on  his  death- 
bed the  air  called  Dafyddy  Garregg  Wen. 

15.  Battle  of  Bear  an  Duine.  A  skirmish 
actually  took  place  at  a  pass  thus  called  in  the 
Trosachs,  and  closed  with  the  remarkable  in- 


602 


NOTES. 


cident  mentioned  in  the  text.  It  was  greatly 
posterior  in  date  to  the  reign  of  James  V. 

17.  Tinchel.  A  circle  of  sportsmen,  who,  by 
surrounding  a  great  space,  and  gradually  nar- 
rowing, brought  immense  quantities  of  deer 
together,  which  usually  made  desperate  efforts 
to  break  through  the  Tinchel. 

26.  And  Snowdoun's  Knight  is  Scotland's 
King.  This  discovery  will  probably  remind' 
the  reader  of  the  beautiful  Arabian  tale  of  77 
Bondocani.  Yet  the  incident  is  not  borrowed 
from  that  elegant  story,  but  from  Scottish  tra- 
dition. James  V.,  of  whom  we  are  treating, 
was  a  monarch  whose  good  and  benevolent  in- 
tentions often  rendered  his  romantic  freaks 
venial,  if  not  respectable,  since,  from  his  anx- 
ious attention  to  the  interests  of  the  lower  and 
most  oppressed  class  of  his  subjects,  he  was,  as 
we  have  seen,  popularly  termed  the  King  of  the 
Commons.     For  the  purpose  of  seeing  that  jus- 


tice was  regularly  administered,  and  frequently 
from  the  less  justifiable  motive  of  gallantry,  he 
used  to  traverse  the  vicinage  of  his  severaf  pal- 
aces in  various  disguises.  The  two  excellent 
comic  songs  entitled  The  Gaberlunzie  Man  and 
We  '11  gae  nae  mair  a  roving  are  said  to  have 
been  founded  upon  the  success  of  his  amorous 
adventures  when  travelling  in  the  disguise  of  a 
beggar.  The  latter  is  perhaps  the  best  comic 
ballad  in  any  language. 

28.  The  name  of  Snowdoun.  William  of 
Worcester,  who  wrote  about  the  middle  of  the 
fifteenth  century,  calls  Stirling  Castle  Snow- 
doun. Sir  David  Lindesay  bestows  the  same 
epithet  upon  it  in  his  Complaint  of  the  Pa- 
pingo :  — 

"  Adieu,  fair  Snawdoun,  with  thy  towers  high, 
Thy  chaple-royal,  park,  and  table  round  ; 
May,  June,  and  July,  would  I  dwell  in  thee, 
Were  I  a  man,  to  hear  the  birdis  sound, 
Whilk  doth  agane  thy  royal  rock  rebound." 


€l)e  Ufeton  of  Don  iRoHencfe. 


The  Vision  of  Don  Roderick  was  published 
July  15, 181 1,  and  had  the  following  preface  :  — 

"The  following  Poem  is  founded  upon  a 
Spanish  Tradition,  particularly  detailed  in  the 
Notes ;  but  bearing,  in  general,  that  Don  Rod- 
erick, the  last  Gothic  King  of  Spain,  when  the 
Invasion  of  the  Moors  was  impending,  had  the 
temerity  to  descend  into  an  ancient  vault,  near 
Toledo,  the  opening  of  which  had  been  de- 
nounced as  fatal  to  the  Spanish  Monarchy. 
The  legend  adds,  that  his  rash  curiosity  was 
mortified  by  an  emblematical  representation  of 
those  Saracens  who,  in  the  year  714,  defeated 
him  in  battle,  and  reduced  Spain  under  their 
dominion.  I  have  presumed  to  prolong  the 
Vision  of  the  Revolutions  of  Spain  down  to 
the  present  eventful  crisis  of  the  Peninsula; 
and  to  divide  it,  by  a  supposed  change  of  scene, 
into  Three  Periods.  The  First  of  these  repre- 
sents the  Invasion  of  the  Moors,  the  Defeat 
and  Death  of  Roderick,  and  closes  with  the 
peaceful  occupation  of  the  country  by  the  Vic- 
tors. The  Second  Period  embraces  the  state 
of  the  Peninsula,  when  the  conquests  of  the 
Spaniards  and  Portuguese  in  the  East  and 
West  Indies  had  raised  to  the  highest  pitch 
the  renown  of  their  arms;  sullied,  however,  by 
superstition  and  cruelty.  An  allusion  to  the 
inhumanities  of  the  Inquisition  terminates  this 
picture.  The  Last  Part  of  the  Poem  opens 
with  the  state  of  Spain  previous  to  the  unpar- 
alleled treachery  of  Bonaparte;  gives  a  sketch 
of  the  usurpation  attempted  upon  that  unsus- 
picious and  friendly  kingdom,  and  terminates 
with  the  arrival  of  the  British  succors.  It  may 
be  further  proper  to  mention  that  the  object  of 
the  Poem  is  less  to  commemorate  or  detail 
particular  incidents,  than  to  exhibit  a  general 
and  impressive  picture  oi  the  several  periods 
brought  upon  the  stage. 


"  I  am  too  sensible  of  the  respect  due  to  the 
Public,  especially  by  one  who  has  already  ex- 
perienced more  than  ordinary  indulgence,  to 
offer  any  apology  for  the  inferiority  of  the 
poetry  to  the  subject  it  is  chiefly  designed  to 
commemorate.  Yet  I  think  it  proper  to  men- 
tion that  while  I  was  hastily  executing  a  work, 
written  for  a  temporary  purpose,  and  on  passing 
events,  the  task  was  most  cruelly  interrupted 
by  the  successive  deaths  of  Lord  President 
Blair  and  Lord  Viscount  Melville.  In  those 
distinguished  characters  I  had  not  only  to  re- 
gret persons  whose  lives  were  most  important 
to  Scotland,  but  also  whose  notice  and  patron- 
age honored  my  entrance  upon  active  life ; 
and,  I  may  add,  with  melancholy  pride,  who 
permitted  my  more  advanced  age  to  claim  no 
common  share  in  their  friendship.  Under  such 
interruptions,  the  following  verses,  which  my 
best  and  happiest  efforts  must  have  left  far 
unworthy  of  their  theme,  have,  I  am  myself 
sensible,  an  appearance  of  negligence  and  inco- 
herence, which,  in  other  circumstances,  I  might 
have  been  able  to  remove. 
"Edinburgh,  June  24,  181 1." 


INTRODUCTION. 

4.  And  Cattreath's  glens  with  voice  of  triumph 
rung,  etc.  This  locality  may  startle  those 
readers  who  do  not  recollect  that  much  of  the 
ancient  poetry  preserved  in  Wales  refers  less 
to  the  history  of  the  Principality  to  which  that 
name  is  now  limited,  than  to  events  which 
happened  in  the  northwest  of  England,  and 
southwest  of  Scotland,  where  the  Britons  for 
a  long  time  made  a  stand  against  the  Saxons. 


THE    VISION    OF  DON  RODERICK 


603 


The  battle  of  Cattreath,  lamented  by  the  cele- 
brated Aneurin,  is  supposed,  by  the  learned 
Dr.  Leyden,  to  have  been  fought  on  the  skirts 
of  Ettrick  Forest.  It  is  known  to  the  English 
reader  by  the  paraphrase  of  Gray,  beginning,  — 

"  Had  I  hut  the  torrent's  might, 
With  headlong  rage  and  wild  affright,''  etc. 

But  it  is  not  so  generally  known  that  the  cham- 
pions, mourned  in  this  beautiful  dirge,  were  the 
British  inhabitants  of  Edinburgh,  who  were 
cut  off  by  the  Saxons  of  Deiria,  or  Northum- 
berland, about  the  latter  part  of  the  sixth 
century. 

8.  Minchmore's  haunted  spring.  A  belief  in 
the  existence  and  nocturnal  revels  of  the  fairies 
still  lingers  among  the  vulgar  in  Selkirkshire. 
A  copious  fountain  upon  the  ridge  of  Minch- 
more,  called  the  Cheesewell,  is  supposed  to  be 
sacred  to  these  fanciful  spirits,  and  it  was 
customary  to  propitiate  them  by  throwing  in 
something  upon  passing  it.  A  pin  was  the 
usual  oblation ;  and  the  ceremony  is  still  some- 
times practised,  though  rather  in  jest  than 
earnest. 

9.  In  verse  spontaneous  chants  some  favored 
name.  The  flexibility  of  the  Italian  and  Spanish 
languages,  and  perhaps  the  liveliness  of  their 
genius,  renders  these  countries  distinguished 
for  the  talent  of  improvisation,  which  is  found 
even  among  the  lowest  of  the  people.  It  is 
mentioned  by  Baretti  and  other  travellers. 

9.  Kindling  at  the  deeds  of  Grceme.  Over  a 
name  sacred  for  ages  to  heroic  verse,  a  poet  may 
be  allowed  to  exercise  some  power.  I  have  used 
the  freedom,  here  and  elsewhere,  to  alter  the 
orthography  of  the  name  of  my  gallant  country- 
man, in-order  to  apprise  the  Southern  reader 
of  its  legitimate  sound;  —  Grahame  being,  on 
the  other  side  of  the  Tweed,  usually  pronounced 
as  a  dissyllable. 


THE  VISION  OF  DON  RODERICK. 

4.  What!  will  Don  Roderick  here  till  morn- 
ing stay,  etc.?  Almost  all  the  Spanish  his- 
torians, as  well  as  the  voice  of  tradition, 
ascribe  the  invasion  of  the  Moors  to  the 
forcible  violation  committed  by  Roderick  upon 
Florinda,  called  by  the  Moors,  Caba  or  Cava. 
She  was  the  daughter  of  Count  Julian,  one 
of  the  Gothic  monarch's  principal  lieutenants, 
who,  when  the  crime  was  perpetrated,  was 
engaged  in  the  defence  of  Ceuta  against  the 
Moors.  In  his  indignation  at  the  ingratitude 
of  his  sovereign,  and  the  dishonor  of  his 
daughter,  Count  Julian  forgot  the  duties  of 
a  Christian  and  a  patriot,  and,  forming  an 
alliance  with  Musa,  then  the  Caliph's  lieuten- 
ant in  Africa,  he  countenanced  the  invasion 
of  Spain  by  a  body  of  Saracens  and  Africans, 
commanded  by  the  celebrated  Tarik ;  the  issue 
of  which  was  the  defeat  and  death  of  Roderick, 
and  the  occupation  of  almost  the  whole  penin- 
sula by  the  Moors. 


19.  The  Tecbir  war-cry  and  the  Lelie's  yell. 
TheTecbir  (derived  from  the  words  Alia  acbar, 
God  is  most  mighty)  was  the  original  war-cry 
of  the  Saracens.  It  is  celebrated  by  Hughes 
in  the  Siege  of  Damascus  :  — 

"  We  heard  the  Tecbir ;  so  these  Arabs  call 
Their  shout  of  onset,  when,  with  loud  appeal, 
They  challenge  Heaven,  as  if  demanding  conquest." 

The  Lelie,  well  known  to  the  Christians  dur- 
ing the  crusades,  is  the  shout  of  Alia  ilia  Alia, 
the  Mahometan  confession  of  faith.  It  is  twice 
used  in  poetry  by  my  friend  Mr.  W.  Stewart 
Rose,  in  the  romance  of  Parlenopex,  and  in  the 
Crusade  of  Saint  Lewis. 

21.  By  Heaven,  the  Moors  prevail !  the  Chris- 
tians yield  !  etc.  Count  Julian,  the  father  of 
the  injured  Florinda,  with  the  connivance  and 
assistance  of  Oppas,  Archbishop  of  Toledo,  in- 
vited, in  713,  the  Saracens  into  Spain.  A  con- 
siderable army  arrived  under  the  command  of 
Tarik,  or  Tarif,  who  bequeathed  the  well-known 
name  of  Gibraltar  ( Gibel  al  Tarik,  or  the  moun- 
tain of  Tarik)  to  the  place  of  his  landing.  He 
was  joined  by  Count  Julian,  ravaged  Andalusia, 
and  took  Seville.  In  714  they  returned  with 
a  still  greater  force,  and  Roderick  marched 
into  Andalusia  at  the  head  of  a  great  army, 
to  give  them  battle. 

Orelia,  the  courser  of  Don  Roderick,  was 
celebrated  for  her  speed  and  form.  She  is 
mentioned  repeatedly  in  Spanish  romance,  and 
also  by  Cervantes. 

32,-  When  for  the  light  bolero  ready  stand,  etc. 
The  bolero  is  a  very  light  and  active  dance, 
much  practised  by  the  Spaniards,  in  which 
castanets  are  always  used.  Mozo  and  inucha- 
cha  is  equivalent  to  our  phrase  of  lad  and  lass. 

43.  While  trumpets  rang,  and  heralds  cried 
"  Castile!"  The  heralds,  at  the  coronation  of 
a  Spanish  monarch,  proclaim  his  name  three 
times,  and  repeat  three  times  the  word  Castilla, 
Castilla,  Castilla;  which,  with  all  other  cere- 
monies, was  carefully  copied  in  the  mock  in- 
auguration of  Joseph  Bonaparte. 


CONCLUSION. 

2.  While  dozvnward  on  the  land  his  legions 
press,  etc.  I  have  ventured  to  apply  to  the 
movements  of  the  French  army  that  sublime 
passage  in  the  prophecies  of  Joel  (ii.  2-10) 
which  seems  applicable  to  them  in  more  re- 
spects than  that  I  have  adopted  in  the  text. 

8.  Vainglorious  fugitive.  The  French  con- 
ducted this  memorable  retreat  with  much  of  the 
fanfarronade  proper  to  their  country,  by  which 
they  attempt  to  impose  upon  others,  and  per- 
haps on  themselves,  a  belief  that  they  are 
triumphing  in  the  very  moment  of  their  dis- 
comfiture. On  the  30th  March,  181 1,  their 
rear-guard  was  overtaken  near  Pega  by  the 
British  cavalry.  Being  well  posted,  and  con- 
ceiving themselves  safe  from  infantry  (who 
were  indeed  many  miles  in  the  rear)  and  from 


604 


NOTES. 


artillery,  thev  indulged  themselves  in  parading 
their  bands  'of  music,  and  actually  performed 
"  God  save  the  King."  Their  minstrelsy  was, 
however,  deranged  by  the  undesired  accom- 
paniment of  the  British  horse-artillery,  on 
whose  part  in  the  concert  they  had  not  cal- 
culated. The  surprise  was  sudden,  and  the 
rout  complete;  for  the  artillery  and  cavalry 
did  execution  upon  them  for  about  four  miles, 
pursuing  at  the  gallop  as  often  as  they  got 
beyond  the  range  of  the  guns. 

10.  Vainly  thy  squadrons  hide  Assuava's  plain, 
etc.  In  the  severe  action  of  Fuentes  d'  Honoro, 
upon  5th  May,  181 1,  the  grand  mass  of  the 
French  cavalry  attacked  the  right  of  the  British 
position,  covered  by  two  guns  of  the  horse- 
artillery,  and  two  squadrons  of  cavalry.  After 
suffering  considerably  from  the  fire  of  the  guns, 
which  annoyed  them  in  every  attempt  at  for- 
mation, the  enemy  turned  their  wrath  entirely 
towards  them,  distributed  brandy  among  their 
troopers,  and  advanced  to  carry  the  field- 
pieces  with  the  desperation  of  drunken  fury. 
They  were  in  no  wise  checked  by  the  heavy 
loss  which  they  sustained  in  this  daring  at- 
tempt, but  closed,  and  fairly  mingled  with  the 
British  cavalry,  to  whom  they  bore  the  propor- 
tion of  ten  to  one.  Captain  Ramsay,  who 
commanded  the  two  guns,  dismissed  them  at 
the  gallop,  and  putting  himself  at  the  head  of 
the  mounted  artillerymen,  ordered  them  to  fall 
upon  the  French,  sabre-in-hand.  This  very 
unexpected  conversion  of  artillerymen  into 
dragoons  contributed  greatly  to  the  defeat 
of  the  enemy  already  disconcerted  by  the  re- 
ception they  had  met  from  the  two  British 
squadrons ;  and  the  appearance  of  some  small 
reinforcements,  notwithstanding  the  immense 
disproportion  of  force,  put  them  to  absolute 
rout. 

10.  And  what  avails  thee  that,  for  Cameron 
slain,  etc.  The  gallant  Colonel  Cameron  was 
wounded  mortally  during  the  desperate  contest 
in  the  streets  of  the  village  called  Fuentes 
d'  Honoro.     He  fell  at  the  head  of  his  native 


Highlanders,  the  71st  and  79th,  who  raised 
a  dreadful  shriek  of  grief  and  rage.  They 
charged,  with  irresistible  fury,  the  finest  body 
of  French  grenadiers  ever  seen,  being  a  part 
of  Bonaparte's  selected  guard.  The  officer 
who  led  the  French,  a  man  remarkable  for 
stature  and  symmetry,  was  killed  on  the  spot. 
The  Frenchman  who  stepped  out  of  his  rank 
to  take  aim  at  Colonel  Cameron  was  also 
bayoneted,  pierced  with  a  thousand  wounds, 
and  almost  torn  to  pieces  by  the  furious  High- 
landers, who,  under  the  command  of  Colonel 
Cadogan,  bore  the  enemy  out  of  the  contested 
ground  at  the  point  of  the  bayonet. 

14.  O  who  shall  grudge  him  Albuerd's  bays, 
etc.  Nothing  during  the  war  of  Portugal 
seems,  to  a  distinct  observer,  more  deserving 
of  praise,  than  the  self-devotion  of  Field- 
Marshal  Beresford,  who  was  contented  to 
undertake  all  the  hazard  of  obloquy  which 
might  have  been  founded  upon  any  miscarriage 
in  the  highly  important  experiment  of  training 
the  Portuguese  troops  to  an  improved  state 
of  discipline. 

17.  The  conquering  shout  of  Grwme.  This 
stanza  alludes  to  the  various  achievements  of 
the  warlike  family  of  Graeme,  or  Grahame. 
They  are  said,  by  tradition,  to  have  descended 
from  the  Scottish  chief,  under  whose  command 
his  countrymen  stormed  the  wall  built  by  the 
Emperor  Severus  between  the  Friths  of  Forth 
and  Clyde,  the  fragments  of  which  are  still 
popularly  called  Graeme's  Dyke.  Sir  John  the 
Graeme,  "  the  hardy,  wight,  and  wise,"  is  well 
known  as  the  friend  of  Sir  William  Wallace. 
Alderne,  Kilsythe,  and  Tibbermuir,  were  scenes 
of  the  victories  of  the  heroic  Marquis  of  Mont- 
rose. The  pass  of  Killycrankie  is  famous  for 
the  action  between  King  William's  forces  and 
the  Highlanders  in  1689.  "  Where  glad  Dun- 
dee in  faint  huzzas  expired."  It  is  seldom  that 
one  line  can  number  so  many  heroes,  and  yet 
more  rare  when  it  can  appeal  to  the  glory  of  a 

j   living   descendant   in   support    of    its   ancient 

i   renown. 


iRottebi), 


Sir  Walter  Scott  commenced  the  compo- 
sition of  Rokebv  at  Abbotsford,  on  the  15th  of 
September,  181 2,  and  finished  it  on  the  last 
day  of  the  following  December.  The  edition  of 
1830  contained  the  following  introduction  :  — 

ween  the  publication  of  The  Lady  of  the 
/.it/:,;  which  w.is  so  eminently  successful,  and 
that  of  Rokcby,  in  1813,  three  years  had  inter- 
vened. I  shall  not,  I.  believe,  be  accused  of 
ever  having  attempted  to  usurp  a  superiority 
over  many  men  of  genius,  my  contemporaries ; 
but,  in  point  of  popularity,  not  of  actual  talent, 
the  caprice  of  the  public  had  certainly  given 
me  such  a  temporary  superiority  over  men,  of 


whom,  in  regard  to  poetical  fancy  and  feeling, 
I  scarcely  thought  myself  worthy  to  loose  the 
shoe-latch.  On  the  other  hand,  it  would  be  ab- 
surd affectation  in  me  to  deny,  that  I  conceived 
myself  to  understand,  more  perfectly  than  many 
of  my  contemporaries,  the  manner  most  likely 
to  interest  the  great  mass  of  mankind.  Yet, 
even  with  this  belief,  I  must  truly  and  fairly 
say  that  I  always  considered  myself  rather  as 
one  who  held  the  bets  in  time  to  be  paid  over 
to  the  winner,  than  as  having  any  pretence  to 
keep  them  in  my  own  right. 

"  In  the  mean  time  years  crept  on,  and  not 
without  their  usual  depredations  on  the  passing 
generation.     My  sons  had  arrived  at  the  age 


ROKEBY. 


605 


when  the  paternal  home  was  no  longer  their 
best  abode,  as  both  were  destined  to  active  life. 
The  field-sports,  to  which  I  was  peculiarly  at- 
tached, had  now  less  interest,  and  were  replaced 
by  other  amusements  of  a  more  quiet  character; 
and  the  means  and  opportunity  of  pursuing 
these  were  to  be  sought  for.  I  had,  indeed,  for 
some  years  attended  to  farming,  a  knowledge  of 
which  is,  or  at  least  was  then,  indispensable  to 
the  comfort  of  a  family  residing  in  a  solitary 
country-house  ;  but  although  this  was  the  favor- 
ite amusement  of  many  of  my  friends,  I  have 
never  been  able  to  consider  it  as  a  source  of 
pleasure.  I  never  could  think  it  a  matter  of 
passing  importance,  that  my  cattle  or  crops 
were  better  or  more  plentiful  than  those  of  my 
neighbors,  and  nevertheless  I  began  to  feel  the 
necessity  of  some  more  quiet  out-door  occupa- 
tion, different  from  those  I  had  hitherto  pur- 
sued. I  purchased  a  small  farm  of  about  one 
hundred  acres,  with  the  purpose  of  planting  and 
improving  it,  to  which  property  circumstances 
afterwards  enabled  me  to  make  considerable 
additions  ;  and  thus  an  era  took  place  in  my 
life,  almost  equal  to  the  important  one  men- 
tioned by  the  Vicar  of  Wakefield,  when  he  re- 
moved from  the  Blue-room  to  the  Brown.  In 
point  of  neighborhood,  at  least,  the  change  of 
residence  made  little  more  difference.  Abbots- 
ford,  to  which  we  removed,  was  only  six  or 
seven  miles  down  the  Tweed,  and  lay  on  the 
same  beautiful  stream.  It  did  not  possess  the 
romantic  character  of  Ashestiel,  my  former  resi- 
dence ;  but  it  had  a  stretch  of  meadow-land 
along  the  river,  and  possessed,  in  the  phrase  of 
the  landscape-gardener,  considerable  capabili- 
ties. Above  all,  the  land  was  my  own,  like 
Uncle  Toby's  Bowling-green,  to  do  what  I  would 
with.  It  had  been,  though  the  gratification  was 
long  postponed,  an  early  wish  of  mine  to  con- 
nect myself  with  my  mother  earth,  and  prose- 
cute those  experiments  by  which  a  species  of 
creative  power  is  exercised  over  the  face  of 
nature.  I  can  trace,  even  to  childhood,  a 
pleasure  derived  from  Dodsley's  account  of 
Shenstone's  Leasowes,  and  I  envied  the  poet 
much  more  for  the  pleasure  of  accomplishing 
the  objects  detailed  in  his  friend's  sketch  of 
his  grounds,  than  for  the  possession  of  pipe, 
crook,  flock,  and  Phillis  to  boot.  My  memory, 
also,  tenacious  of  quaint  expressions,  still  re- 
tained a  phrase  which  it  had  gathered  from 
an  old  almanac  of  Charles  the  Second's  time 
(when  everything  down  to  almanacs  affected 
to  be  smart),  in  which  the  reader,  in  the  month 
of  June,  is  advised  for  health's  sake  to  walk  a 
mile  or  two  every  day  before  breakfast,  and,  if 
he  can  possibly  so  manage,  to  let  his  exercise 
be  taken  upon  his  own  land. 

"  With  the  satisfaction  of  having  attained  the 
fulfilment  of  an  early  and  long-cherished  hope, 
I  commenced  my  improvements,  as  delightful 
in  their  progress  as  those  of  the  child  who  first 
makes  a  dress  for  a  new  doll.  The  nakedness 
of  the  land  was  in  time  hidden  by  woodlands 
of  considerable  extent— the  smallest  of  possible 
cottages  was  progressively  expanded  into  a  sort 


of  dream  of  a  mansion-house,  whimsical  in  the 
exterior,  but  convenient  within.  Nor  did  I  for- 
get what  is  the  natural  pleasuie  of  every  man 
who  has  been  a  reader  ;  I  mean  the  filling  the 
shelves  of  a  tolerably  large  library.  All  these 
objects  I  kept  in  view,  to  be  executed  as  con- 
venience should  serve  ;  and  although  I  knew 
many  years  must  elapse  before  they  could  be 
attained,  I  was  of  a  disposition  to  comfort  my- 
self with  the  Spanish  proverb,  '  Time  and  I 
against  any  two.' 

"  The  difficult  and  indispensable  point  of  find- 
ing a  permanent  subject  of  occupation  was  now 
at  length  attained ;  but  there  was  annexed  to 
it  the  necessity  of  becoming  again  a  candidate 
for  public  favor  ;  for  as  I  was  turned  improver 
on  the  earth  *of  the  every-day  world,  it  was  under 
condition  that  the  small  tenement  of  Parnassus, 
which  might  be  accessible  to  my  labors,  should 
not  remain  uncultivated. 

"  I  meditated,  at  first,  a  poem  on  the  subject 
of  Bruce,  in  which  I  made  some  progress,  but 
afterwards  judged  it  advisable  to  lay  it  aside, 
supposing  that  an  English  story  might  have 
more  novelty ;  in  consequence,  the  precedence 
was  given  to  Rokeby. 

"  If  subject  and  scenery  could  have  influenced 
the  fate  of  a  poem,  that  of  Rokeby  should  have 
been  eminently  distinguished  ;  for  the  grounds 
belonged  to  a  dear  friend,  with  whom  I  had 
lived  in  habits  of  intimacy  for  many  years,  and 
the  place  itself  united  the  romantic  beauties  of 
the  wilds  of  Scotland  with  the  rich  and  smiling 
aspect  of  the  southern  portion  of  the  island. 
But  the  Cavaliers  and  Roundheads,  whom  I 
attempted  to  summon  up  to  tenant  this  beauti- 
ful region,  had  for  the  public  neither  the  novelty 
nor  the  peculiar  interest  of  the  primitive  High- 
landers. This,  perhaps,  was  scarcely  to  be  ex- 
pected, considering  that  the  general  mind 
sympathizes  readily  and  at  once  with  the  stamp 
which  nature  herself  has  affixed  upon  the 
manners  of  a  people  living  in  a  simple  and 
patriarchal  state  ;  whereas  it  has  more  difficulty 
in  understanding  or  interesting  itself  in  manners 
founded  upon  those  peculiar  habits  of  thinking 
or  acting  which  are  produced  by  the  progress 
of  society.  We  could  read  with  pleasure  the 
tale  of  the  adventures  of  a  Cossack  or  a  Mongol 
Tartar,  while  we  only  wonder  and  stare  over 
those  of  the  lovers .  in  the  Pleasing  Chinese 
History,  where  the  embarrassments  turn  upon 
difficulties  arising  out  of  unintelligible  delicacies 
peculiar  to  the  customs  and  manners  of  that 
affected  people. 

"  The  cause  of  my  failure  had,  however,  afar 
deeper  root.  The  manner,  or  style,  which,  by 
its  novelty,  attracted  the  public  in  an  unusual 
degree,  had  now,  after  having  been  three  times 
before  them,  exhausted  the  patience  of  the 
reader,  and  began  in  the  fourth  to  lose  its 
charms.  The  reviewers  may  be  said  to  have 
apostrophized  the  author  in  the  language  of 
Parnell's  Edwin :  — 

'  And  here  reverse  the  charm,  he  cries, 
And  let  it  fairly  now  suffice, 
The  gambol  has  been  shown.' 


6o6 


NOTES. 


"  The  licentious  combination  of  rhymes,  in  a 
manner  perhaps  not  very  congenial  to  our  lan- 
guage, had  not  been  confined  to  the  author. 
Indeed,  in  most  similar  cases,  the  inventors  of 
such  novelties  have  their  reputation  destroyed 
by  their  own  imitators,  as  Actaeon  fell  under 
the  fury  of  his  own  dogs.  The  present  author, 
like  Bo'badil,  had  taught  his  trick  of  fence  to  a 
hundred  gentlemen  (and  ladies),  who  could  fence 
very  nearly  or  quite  as  well  as  himself.  For 
this  there  was  no  remedy  ;  the  harmony  became 
tiresome  and  ordinary,  and  both  the  original 
inventor  and  his  invention  must  have  fallen  into 
contempt  if  he  had  not  found  out  another  road 
to  public  favor.  What  has  been  said  of  the 
metre  only,  must  be  considered  to  apply  equally 
to  the  structure  of  the  Poem  and  of  the  style. 
The  very  best  passages  of  any  popular  style  are 
not,  perhaps,  susceptible  of  imitation,  but  they 
may  be  approached  by  men  of  talent ;  and  those 
who  are  less  able  to  copy  them,  at  least  lay  hold 
of  their  peculiar  features,  so  as  to  produce  a 
strong  burlesque.  In  either  way,  the  effect  of 
the  manner  is  rendered  cheap  and  common  ; 
and,  in  the  latter  case,  ridiculous  to  boot.  The 
evil  consequences  to  an  author's  reputation  are 
at  least  as  fatal  as  those  which  come  upon  the 
musical  composer  when  his  melody  falls  into 
the  hands  of  the  street  ballad-singer. 

"  Of  the  unfavorable  species  of  imitation,  the 
author's  style  gave  room  to  a  very  large  num- 
ber, owing  to  an  appearance  of  facility  to  which 
some  of  those  who  used  the  measure  unques- 
tionably leaned  too  far.  The  effect  of  the  more 
favorable  imitations,  composed  by  persons  of 
talent,  was  almost  equally  unfortunate  to  the 
original  minstrel,  by  showing  that  they  could 
overshoot  him  with  his  own  bow.  In  short,  the 
popularity  which  once  attended  the  School,  as 
it  was  called,  was  now  fast  decaying. 

"  Besides  all  this,  to  have  kept  his  ground  at 
the  crisis  when  Rokeby  appeared,  its  author 
ought  to  have  put  forth  his  utmost  strength,  and 
to  have  possessed  at  least  all  his  original  advan- 
tages, for  a  mighty  and  unexpected  rival  was 
advancing  on  the  stage,  —  a  rival  not  in  poetical 
powers  only,  but  in  that  art  of  attracting  popu- 
larity, in  which  the  present  writer  had  hitherto 
preceded  better  men  than  himself.  The  reader 
will  easily  see  that  Byron  is  here  meant,  who,  ] 
after  a  little  velitation  of  no  great  promise,  now  | 
appeared  as  a  serious  candidate,  in  the  first  two  ! 
cantos  of  Childe  Harold.  I  was  astonished  at  i 
the  power  evinced  by  that  work,  which  neither 
the  Hours  of  Idleness,  nor  the  English  Bards 
and  Scotch  Rroiewers,  had  prepared  me  to  ex- 
pect from  its  author.  There  was  a  depth  in  his 
thought,  an  eager  abundance  in  his  diction, 
which  argued  full  confidence  in  the  inexhaust- 
ible resources  of  which  he  felt  himself  pos- 
I,  and  there  was  some  appearance  of  that 
labor  of  the  file,  which  indicates  that  the  author 
is  conscious  of  the  necessity  of  doing  every 
justice  to  his  work,  that  it  niay  pass  warrant. 
Lord  Byron  was  also  a  traveller,  a  man  whose 
i  re  fired  by  having  seen,  in  distant  scenes 
of  difficulty  and  danger,  the  places  whose  very 


names  are  recorded  in  our  bosoms  as  the  shrines 
of  ancient  poetry.  For  his  own  misfortune, 
perhaps,  but  certainly  to  the  high  increase  of 
his  poetical  character,  nature  had  mixed  in 
Lord  Byron's  system  those  passions  which 
agitate  the  human  heart  with  most  violence, 
and  which  may  be  said  to  have  hurried  his 
bright  career  to  an  early  close.  There  would 
have  been  little  wisdom  in  measuring  my  force 
with  so  formidable  an  antagonist ;  and  I  was 
as  likely  to  tire  of  playing  the  second  fiddle 
in  the  concert,  as  my  audience  of  hearing  me. 
Age  also  was  advancing.  I  was  growing  in- 
sensible to  those  subjects  of  excitation  by  which 
youth  is  agitated.  I  had  around  me  the  most 
pleasant  but  least  exciting  of  all  society,  that  of 
kind  friends  and  an  affectionate  family.  My 
circle  of  employments  was  a  narrow  one  ;  it 
occupied  me  constantly,  and  it  became  daily 
more  difficult  for  me  to  interest  myself  in  poeti- 
cal composition :  — 

1  How  happily  the  days  of  ThaTaba  went  by  !  ' 

"  Yet,  though  conscious  that  I  must  be,  in  the 
opinion  of  good  judges  inferior  to  the  place  I 
had  for  four  or  five  years  held  in  letters,  and 
feeling  alike  that  the  latter  was  one  to  which  I 
had  only  a  temporary  right,  I  could  not  brook 
the  idea  of  relinquishing  literary  occupation, 
which  had  been  so  long  my  chief  diversion. 
Neither  was  I  disposed  to  choose  the  alternative 
of  sinking  into  a  mere  editor  and  commentator, 
though  that  was  a  species  of  labor  which  I  had 
practised,  and  to  which  I  was  attached.  But  I 
could  not  endure  to  think  that  I  might  not, 
whether  known  or  concealed,  do  something  of 
more  importance.  My  inmost  thoughts  were 
those  of  the  Trojan  Captain  in  the  galley  race, — 

'  Non  jam,  prima  peto,  Mnestheus,  neque  vincere  certo, 
Quanquam  O  !  —  sed  superent,  quibus  hoc,  Neptune,  de- 

disti ; 
Extremos  pudeat  rediisse  :  hoc  vincite,  cives, 
Et  prohibete  nefas.' l  — ^En.  lib.  v.  194. 

"  I  had,  indeed,  some  private  reasons  for  my 
'Quanquam  O!'  which  were  not  worse  than 
those  of  Mnestheus.  I  have  already  hinted 
that  the  materials  were  collected  for  a  poem  on 
the  subject  of  Bruce,  and  fragments  of  it  had 
been  shown  to  some  of  my  friends,  and  received 
with  applause.  Notwithstanding,  therefore,  the 
eminent  success  of  Byron,  and  the  great  chance 
of  his  taking  the  wind  out  of  my  sails,  there 
was,  I  judged,  a  species  of  cowardice  in  desist- 
ing from  the  task  which  I  had  undertaken,  and 
it  was  time  enough  to  retreat  when  the  battle 
should  be  more  decidedly  lost.  The  sale  of 
Rokeby,  excepting  as  compared  with  that  of 
The  Lady  of  the  Lake,  was  in  the  highest  degree 
respectable  ;  and  as  it  included  fifteen  hundred 
quartos,  in  those  quarto-reading  days,  the  trade 
had  no  reason  to  be  dissatisfied. 

"Abbotsford,  April,  1830." 

1  "  I  seek  not  now  the  foremost  palm  to  gain  ; 

Though  yet  — but  ah  !  that  haughty  wish  is  vain  ! 
Let  those  enjoy  it  whom  the  gods  ordain. 
But  to  be  last,  the  lags  of  all  the  race  !  — 
Redeem  yourselves  and  me  from  that  disgrace." 

Dryden. 


ROKEBY. 


607 


CANTO   FIRST. 

1.  On  Barnard's  towers,  and  Tees 's  stream, 
etc.  "  Barnard  Castle,"  saith  old  Leland, 
"standeth  stately  upon  Tees."  It  is  founded 
upon  a  very  high  bank,  and  its  ruins  impend 
over  the  river,  including  within  the  area  a  cir- 
cuit of  six  acres  and  upwards.  This  once 
magnificent  fortress  derives  its  name  from  its 
founder,  Barnard  Baliol,  the  ancestor  of  the 
short  and  unfortunate  dynasty  of  that  name, 
which  succeeded  to  the  Scottish  throne  under 
the  patronage  of  Edward  I.  and  Edward  III. 
Baliol's  Tower,  afterwards  mentioned  in  the 
poem,  is  a  round  tower  of  great  size,  situated 
at  the  western  extremity  of  the  building.  It 
bears  marks  of  great  antiquity,  and  was  remark- 
able for  the  curious  construction  of  its  vaulted 
roof,  which  has  been  lately  greatly  injured  by 
the  operations  of  some  persons,  to  whom  the 
tower  has  been  leased  for  the  purpose  of  mak- 
ing patent  shot !  The  prospect  from  the  top  of 
Baliol's  Tower  commands  a  rich  and  magnifi- 
cent view  of  the  wooded  valley  of  the  Tees. 

6.  The  morion's  plumes  his  visage  hide,  etc. 
The  use  of  complete  suits  of  armor  was  fallen 
into  disuse  during  the  Civil  War,  though  they 
were  still  worn  by  leaders  of  rank  and  impor- 
tance. "  In  the  reign  of  King  James  I.,"  says 
our  military  antiquary,  "no  great  alterations 
were  made  in  the  article  of  defensive  armor, 
except  that  the  buff-coat,  or  jerkin,  which  was 
originally  worn  under  the  cuirass,  now  became 
frequently  a  substitute  for  it,  it  having  been 
found  that  a  good  buff  leather  would  of  itself 
resist  the  stroke  of  a  sword  ;  this,  however, 
only  occasionally  took  place  among  the  light- 
armed  cavalry  and  infantry,  complete  suits  of 
armor  being  still  used  among  the  heavy  horse. 
Buff-coats  continued  to  be  worn  by  the  city 
trained-bands  till  within  the  memory  of  persons 
now  living,  so  that  defensive  armor  may,  in 
some  measure,  be  said  to  have  terminated  in 
the  same  materials  with  which  it  began,  that 
is,  the  skins  of  animals,  or  leather"  (Grose's 
Military   Antiquities,  Lond.    i8ci,  4to,  vol.  ii. 

P-  323)- 

8.  On  his  dark  face  a  scorching  clime,  etc.  In 
this  character  I  have  attempted  to  sketch  one 
of  those  West  Indian  adventurers,  who,  during 
the  course  of  the  seventeenth  century,  were 
popularly  known  by  the  name  of  Buccaneers. 
The  successes  of  the  English  in  the  predatory 
incursions  upon  Spanish  America  during  the 
reign  of  Elizabeth  had  never  been  forgotten; 
and,  from  that  period  downward,  the  exploits 
of  Drake  and  Raleigh  were  imitated,  upon  a 
smaller  scale  indeed,  but  with  equally  desperate 
valor,  by  small  bands  of  pirates,  gathered  from 
all  nations,  but  chiefly  French  and  English. 
The  engrossing  policy  of  the  Spaniards  tended 
greatly  to  increase  the  number  of  these  free- 
booters, from  whom  their  commerce  and  colo- 
nies suffered,  in  the  issue,  dreadful  calamity. 

12.  On  Marston  heath,  etc.  The  well-known 
and  desperate  battle  of  Long-Marston  Moor, 
which  terminated  so  unfortunately  for  the  cause 


of  Charles,  commenced  under  very  different 
auspices.  Prince  Rupert  had  marched  with  an 
army  of  twenty  thousand  men  for  the  relief  of 
York,  then  besieged  by  Sir  Thomas  Fairfax,  at 
the  head  of  the  Parliamentary  army,  and  the 
Earl  of  Leven,  with  the  Scottish  auxiliary 
forces.  In  this  he  so  completely  succeeded, 
that  he  compelled  the  besiegers  to  retreat  to 
Marston  Moor,  a  large  open  plain,  about  eight 
miles  distant  from  the  city.  Thither  they  were 
followed  by  the  Prince,  who  had  now  united  to 
his  army  the  garrison  of  York,  probably  not 
less  than  ten  thousand  men  strong,  under  the 
gallant  Marquis  (then  Earl)  of  Newcastle. 

Lord  Clarendon  informs  us  that  the  King, 
previous  to  receiving  the  true  account  of  the 
battle,  had  been  informed,  by  an  express  from 
Oxford,  "  that  Prince  Rupert  had  not  only 
relieved  York,  but  totally  defeated  the  Scots, 
with  many  particulars  to  confirm  it,  all  which 
was  so  much  believed  there,  that  they  had 
made  public  fires  of  joy  for  the  victory." 

19.  Monckton  and  Mitton  told  the  news,  etc. 
Monckton  and  Mitton  are  villages  near  the 
river  Ouse,  and  not  very  distant  from  the  field 
of  battle.  The  particulars  of  the  action  were 
violently  disputed  at  the  time. 

19.  Stout  Cromwell  has  redeemed  the  day. 
Cromwell,  with  his  regiment  of  cuirassiers,  had 
a  principal  share  in  turning  the  fate  of  the  day 
at  Marston  Moor ;  which  was  equally  matter 
of  triumph  to  the  Independents,  and  of  grief 
and  heart-burning  to  the  Presbyterians  and  to 
the  Scottish. 

20.  Of  Percy  Rede  the  tragic  song,  etc.  In  a 
poem,  entitled  The  Lay  of  the  Reedwater  Min- 
strel, Newcastle,  1809,  this  tale,  with  many  others 
peculiar  to  the  valley  of  the  Reed,  is  com- 
memorated :  "  The  particulars  of  the  tradi- 
tional story  of  Parcy  Keed  of  Troughend,  and 
the  Halls  of  Girsonfield,  the  author  had  from 
a  descendant  of  the  family  of  Reed.  From  his 
account,  it  appears  that  Percival  Reed,  Esquire, 
a  keeper  of  Reedsdale,  was  betrayed  by  the 
Halls  (hence  denominated  the  false-hearted 
Ha's)  to  a  band  of  mosstroopers  of  the  name 
of  Crosier,  who  slew  him  at  Batinghope,  near 
the  source  of  the  Reed. 

"The  Halls  were,  after  the  murder  of  Parcy 
Reed,  held  in  such  universal  abhorrence  and 
contempt  by  the  inhabitants  of  Reedsdale,  for 
their  cowardly  and  treacherous  behavior,  that 
they  were  obliged  to  leave  the  country."  In 
another  passage  we  are  informed  that  the  ghost 
of  the  injured  Borderer  is  supposed  to  haunt 
the  banks  of  a  brook  called  the  Pringle.  These 
Redes  of  Troughend  were  a  very  ancient  family, 
as  may  be  conjectured  from  their  deriving  their 
surname  from  the  river  on  which  they  had  their 
mansion.  An  epitaph  on  one  of  their  tombs 
affirms  that  the  family  held  their  lands  of 
Troughend,  which  are  situated  on  the  Reed, 
nearly  opposite  to  Otterburn,  for  the  incredible 
space  of  nine  hundred  years. 

20.  And  near  the  spot  that  gave  me  name,  etc. 
Risingham,  upon  the  river  Reed,  near  the  beau- 
tiful hamlet  of  Woodburn,  is  an  ancient  Roman 


6o8 


NOTES. 


station,  formerly  called  Habitancum.  Camden 
says,  that  in  his  time  the  popular  account 
bore  that  it  had  been  the  abode  of  a  deity,  or 
giant,  called  Magon;  and  appeals,  in  support 
of  this  tradition,  as  well  as  to  the  etymology  of 
Risingham,  or  Reisenham,  which  signifies,  in 
German,  the  habitation  of  the  giants,  to  two 
Roman  altars  taken  out  of  the  river,  inscribed 
Deo  Mogonti  Cadenorum.  About  half  a 
mile  distant  from  Risingham,  upon  an  emi- 
nence covered  with  scattered  birch-trees  and 
fragments  of  rock,  there  is  cut  upon  a  large 
rock,  in  alto  relievo,  a  remarkable  figure,  called 
Robin  of  Risingham,  or  Robin  of  Redesdale. 
It  presents  a  hunter,  with  his  bow  raised  in  one 
hand,  and  in  the  other  what  seems  to  be  a  hare. 
There  is  a  quiver  at  the  back  of  the  figure,  and 
he  is  dressed  in  a  long  coat,  or  kirtle,  coming 
down  to  the  knees,  and  meeting  close,  with  a 
girdle  bound  round  him.  Dr.  Horseley,  who 
saw  all  monuments  of  antiquity  with  Roman 
eyes,  inclines  to  think  this  figure  a  Roman 
archer ;  and  certainly  the  bow  is  rather  of  the 
ancient  size  than  of  that  which  was  so  formi- 
dable in  the  hand  of  the  English  archers  of  the 
middle  ages.  But  the  rudeness  of  the  whole 
figure  prevents  our  founding  strongly  upon 
mere  inaccuracy  of  proportion.  The  popular 
tradition  is,  that  it  represents  a  giant,  whose 
brother  resided  at  Woodburn,  and  he  himself 
at  Risingham.  It  adds,  that  they  subsisted  by 
hunting,  and  that  one  of  them,  finding  the 
game  become  too  scarce  to  support  them, 
poisoned  his  companion,  in  whose  memory  the 
monument  was  engraved. 

21.  The  statutes  of  the  Buccaneer.  The  "  stat- 
utes of  the  Buccaneers  "  were,  in  reality,  more 
equitable  than  could  have  been  expected  from 
the  state  of  society  under  which  they  had  been 
formed.  They  chiefly  related,  as  may  readily 
be  conjectured,  to  the  distribution  and  the  in- 
heritance of  their  plunder. 

When  the  expedition  was  completed,  the 
fund  of  prize-money  acquired  was  thrown  to- 
gether, each  party  taking  his  oath  that  he  had 
retained  or  concealed  no  part  of  the  common 
stock.  If  any  one  transgressed  in  this  impor- 
tant particular,  the  punishment  was,  his  being 
set  ashore  on  some  desert  key  or  island,  to  shift 
for  himself  as  he  could.  The  owners  of  the 
vessel  had  then  their  share  assigned  for  the  ex- 
of  the  outfit.  These  were  generally  old 
pirates,  settled  at  Tobago,  Jamaica,  St.  Do- 
mingo, «>r  some  other  French  or  English  settle- 
ment. The  surgeon's  and  carpenter's  salaries, 
with  the  price  of  provisions  and  ammunition, 
were  also  defrayed.  Then  followed  the  com- 
pensation due  to  the  maimed  and  wounded, 
rated  according  to  the  damage  they  had  sus- 
tained ;  as  six  hundred  pieces  of  eight,  or  six 
slaves,  for  the  loss  of  an  arm  or  leg,  and  so  in 
proportion.  The  remainder  of  the  booty  was 
divided  into  as  many  shares  as  there  were  Buc- 
The  commander  could  only  lay  claim 
to  a  single  share,  as  the  rest ;  but  they  compli- 
ment, -d  him  with  two  or  three,  in  proportion  as 
he  had  acquitted  himself  to  their  satisfaction. 


CANTO   SECOND. 

2.  The  course  of  Tees.  The  view  from  Bar- 
nard Castle  commands  the  rich  and  magnificent 
valley  of  Tees.  Immediately  adjacent  to  the 
river,  the  banks  are  very  thickly  wooded  ;  at  a 
little  distance  they  are  more  open  and  culti- 
vated ;  but,  being  interspersed  with  hedge- 
rows, and  with  isolated  trees  of  great  size 
and  age,  they  still  retain  the  richness  of  wood- 
land scenery.  The  river  itself  flows  in  a  deep 
trench  of  solid  rock,  chiefly  limestone  and 
marble. 

4.  Eglistoris  gray  ruins.  The  ruins  of  this 
abbey,  or  priory,  are  beautifully  situated  upon 
the  angle  formed  by  a  little  dell  called  Thors- 
gill  at  its  junction  with  the  Tees.  Egliston 
was  dedicated  to  Saint  Mary  and  Saint  John  the 
Baptist,  and  is  supposed  to  have  been  founded 
by  Ralph  de  Multon  about  the  end  of  Henry 
the  Second's  reign. 

5.  Raised  by  that  Legion  loitg  renowned,  etc. 
Close  behind  the  George  Inn  at  Greta  Bridge, 
there  is  a  well-preserved  Roman  encampment, 
surrounded  with  a  triple  ditch,  lying  between 
the  river  Greta  and  a  brook  called  the  Tutta. 
The  four  entrinces  are  easily  to  be  discerned. 
Very  many  Roman  altars  and  monuments  have 
been  found  in  the  vicinity. 

6.  Rokeby's  turrets  high.  This  ancient  manor 
long  gave  name  to  a  family  by  whom  it  is  said 
to  have  been  possessed  from  the  Conquest 
downward,  and  who  are  at  different  times  dis- 
tinguished in  history.  It  was  the  Baron  of 
Rokeby  who  finally  defeated  the  insurrection  of 
the  Earl  of  Northumberland,  tempore  Hen.  IV. 
The  Rokeby,  or  Rokesby  family,  continued 
to  be  distinguished  until  the  great  Civil  War, 
when,  having  embraced  the  cause  of  Charles 
I.,  they  suffered  severely  by  fines  and  con- 
fiscations. 

7.  A  stern  and  lone,  yet  lovely  road,  etc. 
What  follows  is  an  attempt  to  describe  the 
romantic  glen,  or  rather  ravine,  through  which 
the  Greta  finds  a  passage  between  Rokeby  and 
Mortham;  the  former  situated  upon  the  left 
bank  of  Greta,  the  latter  on  the  right  bank, 
about  half  a  mile  nearer  to  its  junction  with 
the  Tees.  The  river  runs  with  very  great 
rapidity  over  a  bed  of  solid  rock,  broken  by 
many  shelving  descents,  down  which  the  stream 
dashes  with  great  noise  and  impetuosity. 

1 1 .  How  whistle  rash  bids  tempests  roar.  That 
this  is  a  general  superstition,  is  well  known  to 
all  who  have  been  on  shipboard,  or  who  have 
conversed  with  seamen. 

II.  Of  Erich's  cap  and  Elmo's  light.  "  This 
Ericus,  King  of  Sweden,  in  his  time  was  held 
second  to  none  in  the  magical  art ;  and  he  was 
so  familiar  with  the  evil  spirits,  which  he  ex- 
ceedingly adored,  that  which  way  soever  he 
turned  his  cap,  the  wind  would  presently  blow 
that  way.  From  this  occasion  he  was  'called 
Windy  Cap  ;  and  manv  men  believed  that  Reg- 
nerus,  King  of  Denmark,  by  the  conduct  of  this 
Ericus,  who  was  his  nephew,  did  happily  ex- 
tend his  piracy  into  the  most  remote  parts  of 


ROKEBY. 


609 


the  earth,  and  conquered  many  countries  and 
fenced  cities  by  his  cunning,  and  at  last  was 
his  coadjutor  ;  that  by  the  consent  of  the  no- 
bles, he  should  be  chosen  King  of  Sweden, 
which  continued  a  long  time  with  him  very 
happily,  until  he  died  of  old  age  "  (Olaus  Mag- 
mis,  p.  45). 

11.  The  Demon  Frigate.  This  is  an  allusion 
to  a  well-known  nautical  superstition  concerning 
a  fantastic  vessel,  called  by  sailors  the  "  Flying 
Dutchman,"  and  supposed  to  be  seen  about  the 
latitude  of  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope.  She  is 
distinguished  from  earthly  vessels  by  bearing  a 
press  of  sail  when  all  others  are  unable,  from 
stress  of  weather,  to  show  an  inch  of  canvas. 
The  cause  of  her  wandering  is  not  altogether 
certain ;  but  the  general  account  is,  that  she 
was  originally  a  vessel  loaded  with  great  wealth, 
on  board  of  which  some  horrid  act  of  murder 
and  piracy  had  been  committed ;  that  the  plague 
broke  out  among  the  wicked  crew  who  had  per- 
petrated the  crime,  and  that  they  sailed  in  vain 
from  port  to  port,  offering,  as  the  price  of  shel- 
ter, the  whole  of  their  ill-gotten  wealth ;  that 
they  were  excluded  from  every  harbor,  for  fear 
of  the  contagion  which  was  devouring  them  ; 
and  that,  as  a  punishment  of  their  crimes,  the 
apparition  of  the  ship  still  continues  to  haunt 
those  seas  in  which  the  catastrophe  took  place, 
and  is  considered  by  the  mariners  as  the  worst 
of  all  possible  omens. 

12.  By  some  desert  isle  or  key.  What  con- 
tributed much  to  the  security  of  the  Buccaneers 
about  the  Windward  Islands  was  the  great  num- 
ber of  little  islets,  called  in  that  country  keys. 
These  are  small  sandy  patches,  appearing  just 
above  the  surface  of  the  ocean,  covered  only 
with  a  few  bushes  and  weeds,  but  sometimes 
affording  springs  of  water,  and,  in  general, 
much  frequented  by  turtle.  Such  little  unin- 
habited spots  afforded  the  pirates  good  har- 
bours, either  for  refitting  or  for  the  purpose  of 
ambush  ;  they  were  occasionally  the  hiding- 
place  of  their  treasure,  and  often  afforded  a 
shelter  to  themselves. 

16.  Before  the  gate  of  Mortham  stood.  The 
castle  of  Mortham,  which  Leland  terms  "  Mr. 
Rokesby's  Place,  in  ripa  citer,  scant  a  quarter 
•of  a  mile  from  Greta  Bridge,  and  not  a  quarter 
of  a  mile  beneath  into  Tees,"  is  a  picturesque 
tower,  surrounded  by  buildings  of  different  ages, 
now  converted  into  a  farm-house  and  offices. 
The  situation  of  Mortham  is  eminently  beauti- 
ful, occupying  a  high  bank,  at  the  bottom  of 
which  the  Greta  winds  out  of  the  dark,  narrow, 
and  romantic 'dell,  which  the  text  has  attempted 
to  describe,  and  flows  onward  through  a  more 
open  valley  to  meet  the  Tees  about  a  quarter 
of  a  mile  from  the  castle. 

18.  There  dig,  and  tomb  your  precious  heap, 
etc.  If  time  did  not  permit  the  Buccaneers  to 
lavish  away  their  plunder  in  their  usual  de- 
baucheries, they  were  wont  to  hide  it,  with 
many  superstitious  solemnities,  in  the  desert 
islands  and  keys  which  they  frequented,  and 
where  much  treasure,  whose  lawless  owners 
perished  without  reclaiming  it,  is  still  supposed 


to  be  concealed.  They  killed  a  Negro  or  Span- 
iard, and  buried  him  with  the  treasure,  believ- 
ing that  his  spirit  would  haunt  the  spot,  and 
terrify  away  all  intruders.  I  cannot  produce 
any  other  authority  on  which  this  custom  is 
ascribed  to  them  than  that  of  maritime  tradi- 
tion, which  is,  however,  amply  sufficient  for  the 
purposes  of  poetry. 

19.  And  force  him  as  by  magic  spell,  etc.  All 
who  are  conversant  with  the  administration  of 
criminal  justice  must  remember  many  occa- 
sions in  which  malefactors  appear  to  have  con- 
ducted themselves  with  a  species  of  infatuation, 
either  by  making  unnecessary  confidences  re- 
specting their  guilt,  or  by  sudden  and  involun- 
tary allusions  to  circumstances  by  which  it  could 
not  fail  to  be  exposed.  A  remarkable  instance 
occurred  in  the  celebrated  case  of  Eugene  Aram.' 
It  happened  to  the  author  himself,  while  con- 
versing with  a  person  accused  of  an  atrocious 
crime,  for  the  purpose  of  rendering  him  profes- 
sional assistance  upon  his  trial,  to  hear  the  pris- 
oner, after  the  most  solemn  and  reiterated 
protestations  that  he  was  guiltless,  suddenly, 
and,  as  it  were,  involuntarily,  in  the  course  of 
his  communications,  make  such  an  admission  as 
was  altogether  incompatible  with  innocence. 

28.  Brackenbury's  dismal  tower.  This  tower 
is  situated  near  the  northeastern  extremity  of 
the  wall  which  encloses  Barnard  Castle,  and  is 
traditionally  said  to  have  been  the  prison. 

31.  Right  heavy  shall  his  ransom  be,  etc.  After 
the  battle  of  Marston  Moor,  the  Earl  of  New- 
castle retired  beyond  sea  in  disgust,  and  many 
of  his  followers  laid  down  their  arms  and  made 
the  best  composition  they  could  with  the  Com- 
mittees of  Parliament.  Fines  were  imposed 
upon  them  in  proportion  to  their  estates  and  de- 
grees of  delinquency,  and  these  fines  were  often 
bestowed  upon  such  persons  as  had  deserved 
well  of  the  Commons.  In  some  circumstances 
it  happened  that  the  oppressed  cavaliers  were 
fain  to  form  family  alliances  with  some  power- 
ful person  among  the  triumphant  party. 


CANTO    THIRD. 

2.  In  Redesdale  his  youth  had  heard,  etc.  The 
inhabitants  of  the  valleys  of  Tyne  and  Reed 
were,  in  ancient  times,  so  inordinately  addicted 
to  these  depredations,  that  in  1564  the  Incor- 
porated Merchant-adventurers  of  Newcastle 
made  a  law  that  none  born  in  these  districts 
should  be  admitted  apprentice.  The  inhab- 
itants are  stated  to  be  so  generally  addicted  to 
rapine  that  no  faith  should  be  reposed  in  those 
proceeding  from  "  such  lewde  and  wicked  pro- 
genitors." This  regulation  continued  to  stand 
unrepealed  until  1771.  A  beggar,  in  an  old 
play,  describes  himself  as  "  born  in  Redesdale, 
in  Northumberland,  and  come  of  a  wight-riding 
surname  called  the  Robsons,  good  honest  men 
and  true,  saving  a  little  shifting  for  their  living, 
God  help  them  !  "  —  a  description  which  would 
have  applied  to  most  Borderers  on  both  sides. 


6io 


NOTES. 


Reidswair,  famed  for  a  skirmish  to  which  it 
gives  name,  is  on  the  very  edge  of  the  Carter- 
fell,  which  divides  England  from  Scotland. 
The  Rooken  is  a  place  upon  Reedwater. 

4.  Hiding  his  face,  lest  foemen  spy,  etc.  After 
one  of  the  recent  battles,  in  which  the  Irish 
rebels  were  defeated,  one  of  their  most  active 
leaders  was  found  in  a  bog,  in  which  he  was 
immersed  up  to  the  shoulders,  while  his  head 
was  concealed  by  an  impending  ledge  of  turf. 
Being  detected  and  seized,  notwithstanding  his 
precaution,  he  became  solicitous  to  know  how 
his  retreat  had  been  discovered.  "  I  caught," 
answered  the  Sutherland  Highlander  by  whom 
he  was  taken,  "  the  sparkle  of  your  eye." 

1 1 .  Of  my  marauding  on  the  clowns,  etc.  The 
troops  of  the  king,  when  they  first  took  the  field, 
were  as  well  disciplined  as  could  be  expected 
from  circumstances.  But  as  the  circumstances 
of  Charles  became  less  favorable,  and  his 
funds  for  regularly  paying  his  forces  decreased, 
habits  of  military  license  prevailed  among  them 
in  greater  excess.  Lacy  the  player,  who  served 
his  master  during  the  Civil  War,  brought  out 
after  the  Restoration,  a  piece  called  The  Old 
Troop,  in  which  he  seems  to  have  commemo- 
rated some  real  incidents  which  occurred  in  his 
military  career.  The  names  of  the  officers  of 
the  Troop  sufficiently  express  their  habits. 
We  have  Flea-flint  Plunder-Master-General, 
Captain  Ferret-farm,  and  Quarter-Master  Burn- 
drop.  The  officers  of  the  Troop  are  in  league 
with  these  worthies,  and  connive  at  their  plun- 
dering the  country  for  a  suitable  share  in  the 
booty.  All  this  was  undoubtedly  drawn  from 
the  life,  which  Lacy  had  an  opportunity  to 
study. 

14.  BrignalVs  woods,  and  ScargiWs  wave,  etc. 
The  banks  of  the  Greta,  below  Rutherford 
Bridge,  abound  in  seams  of  grayish  slate,  which 
are  wrought  in  some  places  to  a  very  great 
depth  under  ground,  thus  forming  artificial 
caverns,  which,  when  the  seam  has  been  ex- 
hausted, are  gradually  hidden  by  the  under- 
wood which  grows  in  profusion  upon  the  ro- 
mantic banks  of  the  river.  In  times  of  public 
confusion,  they  might  be  well  adapted  to  the 
purposes  of  banditti. 

20.  When  Spain  zvaged  warfare  with  our  land. 
There  was  a  short  war  with  Spain  in  1625-26, 
which  will  be  found  to  agree  pretty  well  with 
the  chronology  of  the  poem.  But  probably 
Bertram  held  an  opinion  very  common  among 
the  maritime  heroes  of  the  age,  that  "  there 
wis  no  peace  beyond  the  Line."  The  Spanish 
guarda-costas  were  constantly  employed  in  ag- 
ifl  upon  the  trade  and  settlements  of 
the  English  and  French;  and,  by  their  own 
severities,  gave  room  for  the  syste'm  of  bucca- 
neering, at  first  adopted  in  self-defence  and  re- 
taliation, and  afterwards  persevered  in  from 
habit  and  thirst  of  plunder. 

23.  Our  comrade's  strife.  The  laws  of  the 
Buccaneers,  and  their  successors  the  Pirates, 
however  Severe  and  equitable,  were,  like  other 
laws,  ofteti  Sd  aside  by  the  stronger  party. 
Their  quarrels  about  the  division  of  the  spoil 


fill  their  history,  and  they  as  frequently  arose 
out  of  mere  frolic,  or  the  tyrannical  humor  of 
their  chiefs. 

28.  Adieu  for  evermore.  The  last  verse  of 
this  song  is  taken  from  jthe  fragment  of  an  old 
Scottish  ballad  which  seems  to  express  the  for- 
tunes of  some  follower  of  the  Stuart  family. 

30.  Rere-cross  on  Stanmore.  This  is  a  frag- 
ment of  an  old  cross,  with  its  pediment,  sur- 
rounded by  an  intrenchment,  upon  the  very 
summit  of  the  waste  ridge  of  Stanmore,  near  a 
small  house  of  entertainment  called  the  Spittal. 
The  situation  of  the  cross,  and  the  pains  taken 
to  defend  it,  seem  to  indicate  that  it  was  in- 
tended for  a  landmark  of  importance. 


CANTO   FOURTH. 

1.  When  Denmark's  raven  soared  on  high, 
etc.  About  the  year  of  God  4S66  the  Danes, 
under  their  celebrated  leaders (  Inguar  (more 
properly  Agnar)  and  Hubba,  —  sons,  it  is  said, 
of  the  still  more  celebrated  Reginar  Lodbrog, — 
invaded  Northumberland,  bringing  with  them 
the  magical  standard,  so  often  mentioned  in 
poetry,  called  Reafen,  or  Rumfan,  from  its  bear- 
ing the  figure  of  a  raven.  The  Danes  renewed 
and  extended  their  incursions,  and  began  to 
colonize,  establishing  a  kind  of  capital  at  York, 
from  which  they  spread  their  conquests  and  in- 
cursions in  every  direction.  Stanmore,  which 
divides  the  mountains  of  Westmoreland  and 
Cumberland,  was  probably  the  boundary  of 
the  Danish  kingdom  in  that  direction.  The 
district  to  the  west,  known  in  ancient  British 
history  by  the  name  of  Reged,  had  never  been 
conquered  by  the  Saxons,  and  continued  to 
maintain  a  precarious  independence  until  it 
was  ceded  to  Malcolm,  King  of  Scots,  by 
William  the  Conqueror. 

1.  Beneath  the  shade  the  ATorthmen  came,  etc. 
The  heathen  Danes  have  left  several  traces  of 
their  religion  in  the  upper  part  of  Teesdale. 
Balder-garth,  which  derives  its  name  from  the 
unfortunate  son  of  Odin,  is  a  tract  of  waste 
land  on  the  very  ridge  of  Stanmore ;  and  a 
brook,  which  falls  into  the  Tees  near  Barnard 
Castle,  is  named  after  the  same  deity.  A  field 
upon  the  banks  of  the  Tees  is  also  termed  Wo- 
den-Croft, from  the  supreme  deity  of  the  Edda. 
Thorsgill,  of  which  a  description  is  attempted 
in  stanza  2,  is  a  beautiful  little  brook  and 
dell,  running  up  behind  the  ruins  of  Egliston 
Abbey. 

6.  Who  has  not  heard  how  brave  O'jVeale,  etc. 
The  O'Neale  here  meant,  for  more  than  one 
succeeded  to  the  chieftainship  during  the  reign 
of  Elizabeth,  was  Hugh,  the  grandson  of  Con 
O'Neale,  called  Con  Bacco,  or  the  Lame.  His 
father,  Matthew  O'Kelly,  was  illegitimate,  and, 
being  the  son  of  a  blacksmith's  wife,  was  usually 
called  Matthew  the  Blacksmith.  His  father, 
nevertheless,  destined  his  succession  to  him  ; 
and  he  was  created,  by  Elizabeth,  Baron  of 
Dungannon.     Upon  the  death  of  Con    Bacco, 


ROKEBY. 


6ll 


this  Matthew  was  slain  by  his  brother.  Hugh 
narrowly  escaped  the  same  fate,  and  was  pro- 
tected by  the  English.  Shane  O'Neale,  his 
uncle,  called  Shane  Dymas,  was  succeeded  by 
Turlough  Lynogh  O'Neale  ;  after  whose  death 
Hugh,  having  assumed  the  chieftainship, became 
nearly  as  formidable  to  the  English  as  any  by 
whom  it  had  been  possessed.  Lord  Mountjoy 
succeeded  in  finally  subjugating  O'Neale ;  but 
it  was  not  till  the  succession  of  James,  to  whom 
he  made  personal  submission,  and  was  received 
with  civility  at  court. 

The  Tar  list  he  to  great  O'Neale.  "  It  is  a  cus- 
tom amongst  all  the  Irish,  that  presently  after 
the  death  of  one  of  their  chiefe  lords  or  cap- 
taines,  they  doe  presently  assemble  themselves 
to  a  place  generally  appointed  and  knowne  unto 
them,  to  choose  another  in  his  stead,  where 
they  do  nominate  and  elect,  for  the  most  part 
not  the  eldest  sonne,  nor  any  of  the  children  of 
the  lord  deceased,  but  the  next  to  him  in  blood, 
that  is,  the  eldest  and  worthiest,  as  commonly 
the  next  brother  unto  him,  if  he  have  any,  or 
the  next  cousin,  or  so  forth,  as  any  is  elder  in 
that  kindred  or  sept;  and  then  next  to  them 
doe  they  choose  the  next  of  the  blood  to  be 
Tanist,  who  shall  next  succeed  him  in  the  said 
captainry,  if  he  live  thereunto"  (Spenser's  Ire- 
land). The  Tanist,  therefore,  of  O'Neale,  was 
the  heir- apparent  of  his  power.  This  kind  of 
succession  appears  also  to  have  regulated,  in 
very  remote  times,  the  succession  to  the  crown 
of  Scotland.  It  would  have  been  imprudent,  if 
not  impossible,  to  have  asserted  a  minor's  right 
of  succession  in  those  stormy  days. 

14.  Great  Nial  of  the  Pledges  Nine.  Neal 
Naighvallach,  or  Of  the  Nine  Hostages,  is  said 
to  have  been  monarch  of  all  Ireland,  during  the 
end  of  the  fourth  or  beginning  of  the  fifth  cen- 
tury: •  He  exercised  a  predatory  warfare  on  the 
coast  of  England  and  of  Bretagne,  or  Armorica ; 
and  from  the  latter  country  brought  off  the  cele- 
brated Saint  Patrick,  a  youth  of  sixteen,  among 
other  captives,  whom  he  transported  to  Ireland. 
Neal  derived  his  epithet  from  nine  -nations,  or 
tribes,  whom  he  held  under  his  subjection,  and 
from  whom  he  took  hostages. 

14.  Shane-Dymas  wild.  This  Shane-Dymas, 
or  John  the  Wanton,  held  the  title  and  power 
of  O'Neale  in  the  earlier  part  of  Elizabeth's 
reign,  against  whom  he  rebelled  repeatedly. 
When  reduced  to  extremity  by  the  English,  and 
forsaken  by  his  allies,  this  Shane-Dymas  fled  to 
Clandebov,  then  occupied  by  a  colony  of  Scot- 
tish Highlanders  of  the  family  of  MacDonell. 
He  was  at  first  courteously  received;  but  by 
degrees  they  began  to  quarrel  about  the  slaugh- 
ter of  some  of  their  friends  whom  Shane-Dymas 
had  put  to  death,  and  advancing  from  words  to 
deeds,  fell  upon  him  with  their  broadswords, 
and  cut  him  to  pieces.  After  his  death  a  law 
was  made  that  none  should  presume  to  take  the 
name  and  title  of  O'Neale. 


14.  Geraldine.  The  O'Neales  were  closely 
allied  with  this  powerful  and  warlike  family; 
for  Henry  Owen  O'Neale  married  the  daughter 
of  Thomas,  Earl  of  Kildare,  and  their  son  Con 
More  married  his  cousin-german,  a  daughter  of 
Gerald,  Earl  of  Kildare.  This  Con  More  cursed 
any  of  his  posterity  who  should  learn  the  Eng- 
lish language,  sow  corn,  or  build  houses,  so  as 
to  invite  the  English  to  settle  in  their  country. 
Others  ascribe  this  anathema  to  his  son  Con 
Bacco. 

16.  His  page,  the  next  degree,  etc.  Originally, 
the  order  of  chivalry  embraced  three  ranks : 
1.  The  Page;  2.  The  Squire  ;  3.  The  Knight, — 
a  gradation  which  seems  to  have  been  imitated 
in  the  mystery  of  freemasonry.  But,  before 
the  reign  of  Charles  I., 'the  custom  of  serving 
as  a  squire  had  fallen  into  disuse,  though  the 
order  of  the  page  was  still,  to  a  certain  degree, 
in  observance.  This  state  of  servitude  was  so 
far  from  inferring  anything  degrading,  that  it 
was  considered  as  the  regular  school  for  ac- 
quiring every  quality  necessary  for  future  dis- 
tinction. 


CANTO    FIFTH. 

3.  Seemed  half-abandoned  to  decay.  The  an- 
cient castle  of  Rokeby  stood  exactly  upon  the 
site  of  the  present  mansion,  by  which  a  part  of 
its  walls  is  enclosed.  It  is  surrounded  by  a 
profusion  of  fine  wood,  and  the  park  in  which 
it  stands  is  adorned  by  the  junction  of  the 
Greta  and  of  the  Tees. 

10.  The  Filea  of  O'Neale  was  he.  The  Filea, 
or  Ollamh  Re  Dan,  was  the  proper  bard,  or,  as 
the  name  literally  implies,  poet.  Each  chieftain 
of  distinction  had  one  or  more  in  his  service, 
whose  office  was  usually  hereditary. 

10.  Ah,  Clandeboy!  thy  friendly  floor,  etc. 
Clandeboy  is  a  district  of  Ulster,  formerly  pos- 
sessed by  the  sept  of  the  O'Neales,  and  Slieve- 
Donard,  a  romantic  mountain  in  the  same  prov- 
ince. The  clan  was  ruined  after  Tyrone's  great 
rebellion,  and  their  places  of  abode  laid  deso- 
late. The  ancient  Irish,  wild  and  uncultivated 
in  other  respects,  did  not  yield  even  to  their 
descendants  in  practising  the  most  free  and 
extended  hospitality. 


CANTO    SIXTH. 

32.  A  horseman  armed,  at  headlong  speed,  etc. 
This,  and  what  follows,  is  taken  from  a  veal 
achievement  of  Major  Robert  Philipson,  called 
from  his  desperate  and  adventurous  courage, 
Robin  the  Devil. 


NOTES. 


Cije  aSrOrai  of  ftttermatn. 


This  poem  was  published  in  March,  1813, 
and  the  first  edition  had  the  following  preface  : 

"  In  the  Edinburgh  Annual  Register  for  the 
year  1809,  Three  Fragments  were  inserted, 
written  in  imitation  of  Living  Poets.  It  must 
have  been  apparent  that  by  these  prolusions 
nothing  burlesque  or  disrespectful  to  the  authors 
was  intended,  but  that  they  were  offered  to  the 
public  as  serious,  though  certainly  very  imper- 
fect, imitations  of  that  style  of  composition  by 
which  each  of  the  writers  is  supposed  to  be 
distinguished.  As  these  exercises  attracted  a 
greater  degree  of  attention  than  the  author  an- 
ticipated, he  has  been  induced  to  complete  one 
of  them  and  present  it  as  a  separate  publication. 

"  It  is  not  in  this  place  that  an  examination 
of  the  works  of  the  master  whom  he  has  here 
adopted  as  his  model,  can,  with  propriety,  be 
introduced  ;  since  his  general  acquiescence  in 
the  favorable  suffrage  of  the  public  must  neces- 
sarily be  inferred  from  the  attempt  he  has  now 
made.  He  is  induced,  by  the  nature  of  his  sub- 
ject, to  offer  a  few  remarks  on  what  has  been 
called  romantic  poetry  ;  the  popularity  of  which 
has  been  revived  in  the  present  day,  under  the 
auspices,  and  by  the  unparalleled  success,  of 
one  individual. 

"The  original  purpose  of  poetry  is  either 
religious  or  historical,  or,  as  must  frequently 
happen,  a  mixture  of  both.  To  modern  readers 
the  poems  of  Homer  have  many  of  the  features 
of  pure  romance ;  but  in  the  estimation  of  his 
contemporaries,  they  probably  derived  their 
chief  value  from  their  supposed  historical  au- 
thenticity. The  same  may  be  generally  said  of 
the  poetry  of  all  early  ages.  The  marvels  and 
miracles  which  the  poet  blends  with  his  song, 
do  not  exceed  in  number  or  extravagance  the 
figments  of  the  historians  of  the  same  period  of 
society ;  and,  indeed,  the  difference  betwixt 
poetry  and  prose,  as  the  vehicles  of  historical 
truth,'  is  always  of  late  introduction.  Poets, 
under  various  denominations  of  Bards,  Scalds, 
Chroniclers,  and  so  forth,  are  the  first  historians 
of  all  nations.  Their  intention  is  to  relate  the 
events  they  have  witnessed,  or  the  traditions 
that  have  reached  them;  and  they  clothe  the 
relation  in  rhyme,  merely  as  the  means  of  ren- 
dering it  more  solemn  in  the  narrative,  or  more 
easily  committed  to  memory.  But  as  the  poeti- 
cal historian  improves  in  the  art  of  conveying 
information,  the  authenticity  of  his  narrative 
unavoidably  <ki  lines.  I  ie  is  tempted  to  dilate 
and  dwell  upon  the  events  that  are  interesting 
to  his  imagination,  and,  conscious  how  in- 
differenl  his  audience  is  to  the  naked  truth 
of  his  poem,  his  history  gradually  becomes  a 
romance. 

"It  is  in  thi>  situation  that  those  epics  are 
found,  which  have  been  generally  regarded  the 
standards  of  poetry;  and  it  has  happened  some- 
what strangely  that   the  moderns  have  pointed 


out  as  the  characteristics  and  peculiar  excellen- 
cies of  narrative  poetry,  the  very  circumstances 
which  the  authors  themselves  adopted,  only 
because  their  art  involved  the  duties  of  the 
historian  as  well  as  the  poet.  It  cannot  be 
believed,  for  example,  that  Homer  selected  the 
siege  of  Troy  as  the  most  appropriate  subject 
for  poetry ;  his  purpose  was  to  write  the  early 
history  of  his  country  ;  the  event  he  has  chosen, 
though  not  very  fruitful  in  varied  incident,  nor 
perfectly  well  adapted  for  poetry,  was  neverthe- 
less combined  with  traditionary  and  genealogi- 
cal anecdotes  extremely  interesting  to  those 
who  were  to  listen  to  him;  and  this  he  has 
adorned  by  the  exertions  of  a  genius  which,  if 
it  has  been  equalled,  has  certainly  been  never 
surpassed.  It  was  not  till  comparatively  a  late 
period  that  the  general  accuracy  of  his  narra- 
tive, or  his  purpose  in  composing  it,  was  brought 
into  question.  Ao/ceT  irpwros  [o  'Ava^ayopas] 
(KaOd  4>T)(TL  Qafiopivos  eV  iravToSairrj  'lenopia)  ttju 
'OfjL-fipov  irolrjaiv  airocp^vacrdai  (Tvcu  irepl  aperris 
Kal  SiKaioavvrjs.1  But  whatever  theories  might 
be  framed  by  speculative  men,  his  work  was  of 
an  historical,  not  of  an  allegorical  nature. 
'EvaurtAAeTo  fxcra  rov  MeVreco  Kal  ottov  e/cacrTOTe 
acplnoiTO,  iravra  to  iirix^pLa  SiepcoraTO,  Kal  la- 
ropewv  iirvvBavero'  clubs  5e  fiiv  "t\v  Kal  fiv7]fioavvn]v 
travTuv  ypd<p€(rdai.'2  Instead  of  recommending 
the  choice  of  a  subject  similar  to  that  of  Homer, 
it  was  to  be  expected  that  critics  should  have 
exhorted  the  poets  of  these  latter  days  to  adopt 
or  invent  a  narrative  in  itself  more  susceptible 
of  poetical  ornament,  and  to  avail  themselves 
of  that  advantage  in  order  to  compensate,  in 
some  degree,  the  inferiority  of  genius.  The  con- 
trary course  has  been  inculcated  by  almost  all 
the  writers  upon  the  Epoposia  ;  with  what  suc- 
cess, the  fate  of  Homer's  numerous  imitators 
may  best  show.  The  ultimum  supplicium  of 
criticism  w;as  inflicted  on  the  author  if  he  did 
not  choose  a  subject  which  at  once  deprived 
him  of  all  claim  to  originality,  and  placed  him, 
if  not  in  actual  contest,  at  least  in  fatal  com- 
parison, with  those  giants  in  the  land  whom  it 
was  most  his  interest  to  avoid.  The  celebrated 
receipt  for  writing  an  epic  poem,  which  appeared 
in    The   Guardian?  was   the  first  instance  in 

1  Diogenes  Laertius,  lib.  ii.  Anaxag.  Segm.  II. 

2  Homeri  Vita,  in  Herod.  Henr.  Steph.  1570,  p.  356. 

3   A    RECEIPT  TO    MAKE   AN    EPIC    POEM. 
FOR    THE   FABLE. 

"  Take  ont  of  any  old  poem,  history  book,  romance,  or 
legend  (for  instance,  Geoffry  of  Monmouth,  or  Don  Beli- 
anis  of  Greece),  those  parts  of  story  which  afford  most 
scope  for  long  descriptions.  Put  these  pieces  together,  and 
throw  all  the  adventures  you  fancy  into  one  tale.  Then 
take  a  hero  whom  you  may  choose  for  the  sound  of  his 
name,  and  put  him  into  the  midst  of  these  adventures. 
There  let  him  work  for  twelve  books ;  at  the  end  of  which 
you  may  take  him  out  ready  prepared  to  conqueror  marry, 
it  being  necessary  that  the  conclusion  of  an  epic  poem  be 
fortunate." 

To  make  an  Episode.  —  "  Take  any  remaining  adven- 
ture of  your  former  collection,  in  which  you  could  no  way 


THE   BRIDAL   OF  TRIERMAIN. 


613 


which  common  sense  was  applied  to  this  de- 
partment of  poetry  ;  and,  indeed,  if  the  question 
be  considered  on  its  own  merits,  we  must  be 
satisfied  that  narrative  poetry,  if  strictly  con- 
fined to  the  great  occurrences  of  history,  would 
be  deprived  of  the  individual  interest  which  it 
is  so  well  calculated  to  excite. 

"  Modern  poets  may  therefore  be  pardoned  in 
seeking  simpler  subjects  of  verse,  more  inter- 
esting in  proportion  to  their  simplicity.  Two 
or  three  figures,  well  grouped,  suit  the  artist 
better  than  a  crowd,  for  whatever  purpose 
assembled.  For  the  same  reason,  a  scene  im- 
mediately presented  to  the  imagination,  and 
directly  brought  home  to  the  feelings,  though 
involving  the  fate  of  but  one  or  two  persons, 
is  more  favorable  for  poetry  than  the  political 
struggles  and  convulsions  which  influence  the 
fate  of  kingdoms.  The  former  are  within  the 
reach  and  comprehension  of  all,  and,  if  de- 
picted with  vigor,  seldom  fail  to  fix  attention  : 
The  other,  if  more  sublime,  are  more  vague 
and  distant,  less  capable  of  being  distinctly  un- 
derstood, and  infinitely  less  capable  of  exciting 
those  sentiments  which  it  is  the  very  purpose 
of  poetry  to  inspire.  To  generalize  is  always 
to  destroy  effect.  We  would,  for  example,  be 
more  interested  in  the  fate  of  an  individual 
soldier  in  combat,  than  in  the  grand  event  of 


a  general  action ;  with  the  happiness  of  two 
lovers  raised  from  misery  and  anxiety  to  peace 
and  union,  than  with  the  successful  exertions 
of  a  whole  nation.  From  what  causes  this 
may  originate,  is  a  separate  and  obviously  an 
immaterial  consideration.  Before  ascribing  this 
peculiarity  to  causes  decidedly  and  odiously 
selfish,  it  is  proper  to  recollect  that  while  men 
see  only  a  limited  space,  and  while  their  affec- 
tions and  conduct  are  regulated,  not  by  aspir- 
ing to  an  universal  good,  but  by  exerting  their 
power  of  making  themselves  and  others  happy 
within  the  limited  scale  allotted  to  each  in- 
dividual, so  long  will  individual  history  and 
individual  virtue  be  the  readier  and  more  ac- 
cessible road  to  general  interest  and  attention  ; 
and,  perhaps,  we  may  add,  that  it  is  the  more 
useful,  as  well  as  the  more  accessible,  inasmuch 
as  it  affords  an  example  capable  of  being  easily 
imitated. 

'*  According  to  the  author's  idea  of  Romantic 
Poetry,  as  distinguished  from  Epic,  the  former 
comprehends  a  fictitious  narrative,  framed  and 
combined  at  the  pleasure  of  the  writer ;  begin- 
ning and  ending  as  he  may  judge  best ;  which 
neither  exacts  nor  refuses  the  use  of  supernatu- 
ral machinery;  which  is  free  from  the  technical 
rules  of  the  Epee  ;  and  is  subject  only  to  those 
which  good  sense,  good  taste,  and  good  morals. 


involve  your  hero,  or  any  unfortunate  accident  that  was 
too  good  to  be  thrown  away,  and  it  will  be  of  use,  applied 
to  any  other  person,  who  may  be  lost  and  evaporate  in  the 
course  of  the  work,  without  the  least  damage  to  the  com- 
position." 

For  the  Moral  and  Allegory.  —  "  These  you  may  ex- 
tract out  of  the  fable  afterwards  at  your  leisure.  Be  sure 
you  strain  them  sufficiently." 

FOR   THE   MANNERS- 

"  For  those  of  the  hero,  take  all  the  best  qualities  you 
can  find  in  all  the  celebrated  heroes  of  antiquity ;  if  they 
will  not  be  reduced  to  a  consistency,  lay  them  all  on  a 
heap  upon  him.  Be  sure  they  are  qualities  which  your 
patron  would  be  thought  to  have  ;  and,  to  prevent  any 
mistake  which  the  world  may  be  subject  to,  select  from  the 
alphabet  those  capital  letters  that  compose  his  name,  and 
set  them  at  the  head  of  a  dedication  before  your  poem. 
However,  do  not  absolutely  observe  the  exact  quantity  of 
these  virtues,  it  not  being  determined  whether  or  not  it  be 
necessary  for  the  hero  of  a  poem  to  be  an  honest  man. 
For  the  under  characters,  gather  them  from  Homer  and 
Virgil,  and  change  the  names  as  occasion  serves." 

FOR   THE   MACHINES. 

"  Take  of  deities,  male  and  female,  as  many  as  you 
can  use.  Separate  them  into  equal  parts,  and  keep  Jupiter 
in  the  middle.  Let  Juno  put  him  in  a  ferment,  and  Venus 
mollify  him.  Remember  on  all  occasions  to  make  use  of 
volatile  Mercury.  If  you  have  need  of  devils,  draw  them 
out  of  Milton's  Paradise,  and  extract  your  spirits  from 
Tasso.  The  use  of  these  machines  is  evident,  for  since  an 
epic  poem  can  possibly  subsist  without  them,  the  wisest 
way  is  to  reserve  them  for  your  greatest  necessities.  When 
you  cannot  extricate  your  hero  by  any  human  means,  or 
yourself  by  your  own  wits,  seek  relief  from  Heaven,  and 
the  gods  will  do  your  business  very  readily.  This  is  ac- 
cording to  the  direct  prescription  of  Horace  in  his  Art  of 
Poetry :  — 

'  Nee  Deus  intersit,  nisi  dignus  vindice  nodus 
Incident.'  —  Verse  191. 

'  Never  presume  to  make  a  god  appear 
But  for  a  business  worthy  of  a  god.*  —  ROSCOMMON. 

That  is  to  say,  a  poet  should  never  call  upon  the  gods  for 
their  assistance,  but  when  he  is  in  great  perplexity." 


FOR   THE   DESCRIPTIONS. 

For  a  Tempest.  —  "Take  Eurus,  Zephyr,  Auster,  and 
Boreas,  and  cast  them  together  into  one  verse.  Add  to 
these  of  rain,  lightning,  and  of  thunder  (the  loudest  you 
can),  Quantum  sufficit.  Mix  your  clouds  and  billows  well 
together  until  they  foam,  and  thicken  your  description  here 
and  there  with  a  quicksand.  Brew  your  tempest  well  in 
your  head  before  you  set  it  a  blowing." 

For  a  Battle-  —  "  Pick  a  large  quantity  of  images  and 
descriptions  from  Homer's  Iliad,  with  a  spice  or  two  of 
Virgil,  and  if  there  remain  any  overplus,  you  may  lay  them 
by  for  a  skirmish.  Season  it  well  with  similes,  and  it  will 
make  an  excellent  battle." 

For  a  Burning  Town.  — "  If  such  a  description  be 
necessary,  because  it  is  certain  there  is  one  in  Virgil,  Old 
Troy  is  ready  burnt  to  yqur  hands.  But  if  you  fear  that 
would  be  thought  borrowed,  a  chapter  or  two  of  the  Theory 
of  Conflagration,*  well  circumstanced,  and  done  into  verse, 
will  be  good  succedaneum." 

As/or  similes  and  metaphors,  "  they  may  be  found  all 
over  the  creation.  The  most  ignorant  may  gather  them, 
but  the  danger  is  in  applying  them.  For  this,  advise  with 
your  bookseller." 

FOR   THE   LANGUAGE. 

(I  mean  the  diction.)  "  Here  it  will  do  well  to  be  an 
imitator  of  Milton  ;  for  you  will  find  it  easier  to  imitate 
him  in  this  than  anything  else.  Hebraisms  and  Grecisms 
are  to  be  found  in  him  without  the  trouble  of  learning  the 
languages.  I  knew  a  painter  who  (like  our  poet)  had  no 
genius,  make  his  daubings  to  be  thought  originals,  by 
setting  them  in  the  smoke.  You  may,  in  the  same  manner, 
give  the  venerable  air  of  antiquity  to  your  piece,  by  darken- 
ing up  and  down  like  Old  English.  With  this  you  may  be 
easily  furnished  upon  any  occasion,  by  the  Dictionary 
commonly  printed  at  the  end  of  Chaucer." 

"I  must  not  conclude  without  cautioning  all  writers 
without  genius  in  one  material  point,  which  is,  never  to 
be  afraid  of  having  too  much  fire  in  their  works.  I  should 
advise  rather  to  take  their  warmest  thoughts,  and  spread 
them  abroad  upon  paper;  for  they  are  observed  to  cool 
before  they  are  read."  —  Pope,  The  Guardian,  No.  78. 

*  From  Lib.  iii.  De  Conflagratione  Mundi,  or  Telluris  Theoria 
Sacra,  published  in  4to.  1689.  By  Dr.  Thomas  Burnet,  master  of 
the  Charter-House. 


6i4 


NOTES. 


apply  to  every  species  of  poetry  without  excep- 
tion. The  date  may  be  in  a  remote  age,  or  in 
the  present ;  the  story  may  detail  the  adven- 
tures of  a  prince  or  of  a  peasant.  In  a  word, 
the  author  is  absolute  master  of  his  country 
and  its  inhabitants,  and  everything  is  permitted 
to  him,  excepting  to  be  heavy  or  prosaic,  for 
which,  free  and  unembarrassed  as  he  is,  he  has 
no  manner  of  apology.  Those,  it  is  probable, 
will  be  found  the  peculiarities  of  this  species 
of  composition  ;  and  before  joining  the  outcry 
against  the  vitiated  taste  that  fosters  and  en- 
courages it,  the  justice  and  grounds  of  it  ought 
to  be  made  perfectly  apparent.  If  the  want  of 
sieges  and  battles  and  great  military  evolutions, 
in  our  poetry,  is  complained  of,  let  us  reflect 
that  the  campaigns  and  heroes  of  our  days  are 
perpetuated  in  a  record  that  neither  requires 
nor  admits  of  the  aid  of  fiction ;  and  if  the 
complaint  refers  to  the  inferiority  of  our  bards, 
let  us  pay  a  just  tribute  to  their  modesty,  limit- 
ing them,  as  it  does,  to  subjects  which,  however 
indifferently  treated  have  still  the  interest  and 
charm  of  novelty,  and  which  thus  prevents  them 
from  adding  insipidity  to  their  other  more  in- 
superable defects."1 


CANTO   FIRST. 

I.  The  Baron  of  Triermain.  Triermain  was 
a  fief  of  the  Barony  of  Gilsland,  in  Cumber- 
land; it  was  possessed  by  a  Saxon  family  at 

1  "  In  all  this  we  cheerfully  acquiesce,  without  abating 
anything  of  our  former  hostility  to  the  modern  RomautU 
style,  which  is  founded  on  very  different  principles.  Noth- 
ing is,  in  our  opinion,  so  dangerous  to  the  very  existence 
of  poetry  as  the  extreme  laxity  of  rule  and  consequent  fa- 
cility of  composition,  which  are  its  principal  characteristics. 
Our  very  admission  in  favor  of  that  license  of  plot  and 
conduct  which  is  claimed  by  the  Romance  writers,  ought 
to  render  us  so  much  the  more  guarded  in  extending  the 
privilege  to  the  minor  poets  of  composition  and  versifica- 
tion. The  removal  of  all  technical  bars  and  impediments 
sets  wide  open  the  gates  of  Parnassus ;  and  so  much  the 
better.  We  dislike  mystery  quite  as  much  in  matters  of 
taste  as  of  politics  and  religion.  But  let  us  not,  in  open- 
ing the  door,  pull  down  the  wall,  and  level  the  very  founda- 
tion of  the  edifice  "  {Critical  Review,  1813). 

"  In  the  same  letter  in  which  William  Erskine  acknowl- 
edges the  receipt  of  the  first  four  pages  of  Rokeby,  he  ad- 
verts also  to  the  Bridal  of  Triermain  as  being  already  in 
rapid  progress.  The  fragments  of  this  second  poem,  in- 
serted in  the  Register  of  the  preceding  year,  had  attracted 
considerable  notice;  the  secret  of  their  authorship  had 
been  well  kept ;  and  by  some  means,  even  in  the  shrewdest 
circles  of  Edinburgh,  the  belief  had  become  prevalent  that 
they  proceeded  not  from  Scott  but  from  Erskine.  Scott 
-.oner  completed  his  bargain  as  to  the  copyright 
of  the  unwritten  Rokeby,  than  he  resolved  to  pause'  from 
time  to  time  in  its  composition,  and  weave  those  fragments 
into  ;i  shorter  and  lichter  romance,  executed  in  a  different 
hietre,  and  to  be  published  anonymously  in  a  small  pocket 
volume,  as  nearly  u  possible  on  the  same  day  with  the 
avowed  quarto.  He  expected  great  amusement  from  the 
comparisons  which  the  critics  would  no  doubt  indulge 
themselves  in  drawing  between  himself  and  this  humble 
candid  ate ;  and  Erskine  good-humoredly  entered  into 
the  scheme,  undertaking  to  do  nothing  which  should  ef- 
fectually snpprrss  the  notion  of  his  having  set  himself  up 
as  a  modest  rival  to  his  friend  "  {Life  of  Scott,  vol.  iv. 
p.  12). 


the  time  of  the  Conquest,  but,  "after  the  death 
of  Gilmore,  Lord  of  Tryermaine  and  Toreros- 
sock,  Hubert  Vaux  gave  Tryermaine  and  Tor- 
crossock  to  his  second  son,  Ranulph  Vaux; 
which  Ranulph  afterwards  became  heir  to  his 
elder  brother  Robert,  the  founder  of  Lanercost, 
who  died  without  issue.  Ranulph,  being  Lord 
of  all  Gilsland,  gave  Gilmore's  lands  to  his 
younger  son,  named  Roland,  and  let  the  Barony 
descend  to  his  eldest  son  Robert,  son  of  Ra- 
nulph. Roland  had  issue  Alexander,  and  he 
Ranulph,  after  whom  succeeded  Robert,  and 
they  were  named  Rolands  successively,  that 
were  lords  thereof,  until  the  reign  of  Edward 
the  Fourth"  (Burn's  Antiquities  of  Westmore- 
land and  Cumberland,  vol.  ii.  p.  482). 

6.  Dunmailraise.  This  is  one  of  the  grand 
passes  from  Cumberland  into  Westmoreland. 
It  takes  its  name  from  a  cairn,  or  pile  of  stones, 
erected,  it  is  said,  to  the  memory  of  Dunmail, 
the  last  King  of  Cumberland. 

7.  He  passed  Red  Penritli's  Table  Round.  A 
circular  intrenchment,  about  half  a  mile  from 
Penrith,  is  thus  popularly  termed.  The  circle 
within  the  ditch  is  about  one  hundred  and 
sixty  paces  in  circumference,  with  openings,  or 
approaches,  directly  opposite  to  each  other.  As 
the  ditch  is  on  the  inner  side,  it  could  not  be 
intended  for  the  purpose  of  defence,  and  it  has 
reasonably  been  conjectured,  that  the  enclosure 
was  designed  for  the  solemn  exercise  of  feats 
of  chivalry,  and  the  embankment  around  for 
the  convenience  of  the  spectators. 

7.  Mayburgh's  mound.  Higher  up  the  river 
Eamont  than  Arthur's  Round  Table,  is  a  pro- 
digious enclosure  of  great  antiquity,  formed  by 
a  collection  of  stones  upon  the  top  of  a  gently 
sloping  hill,  called  Mayburgh.  In  the  plain 
which  it  encloses  there  stands  erect  an  unhewn 
stone  of  twelve  feet  in  height.  Two  similar 
masses  are  said  to  have  been  destroyed  during 
the  memory  of  man.  The  whole  appears  to  be 
a  monument  of  Druidical  times. 

10.  That  sable  tarn,  etc.  The  small  lake 
called  Scales-tarn  lies  so  deeply  embosomed 
in  the  recesses  of  the  huge  mountain  called 
Saddleback,  more  poetically  Glaramara,  is  of 
such  great  depth,  and  so  completely  hidden 
from  the  sun«  that  it  is  said  its  beams  never 
reach  it,  and  that  the  reflection  of  the  stars 
may  be  seen  at  mid-day. 

1 5.  Call  burn's  resistless  brand.  This  was  the 
name  of  King  Arthur's  well-known  sword,  some- 
times also  called  Excalibar. 

17.  Tintadgel's  spear.  Tintadgel  Castle,  in 
Cornwall,  is  reported  to  have  been  the  birth- 
place of  King  Arthur. 


CANTO   SECOND. 

10.  Fiery  dew,  etc.  The  author  has  an  indis- 
tinct recollection  of  an  adventure,  somewhat 
similar  to  that  which  is  here  ascribed  to  King 
Arthur,   having  befallen   one    of    the    ancient 


THE   LORD   OF   THE  ISLES. 


CIS 


Kings  of  Denmark.  The  horn  in  which  the 
burning  liquor  was  presented  to  that  monarch 
is  said  still  to  be  preserved  in  the  Royal 
Museum  at  Copenhagen. 

10.  The  Monarch,  breathless  and  amazed,  etc. 
"  We  now  gained  a  view  of  the  Vale  of  St. 
John's,  a  very  narrow  dell,  hemmed  in  by 
mountains,  through  which  a  small  brook  makes 
many  meanderings,  washing  little  enclosures 
of  grass-ground,  which  stretch  up  the  rising  of 
the  hills.  In  the  widest  part  of  the  dale  you 
are  struck  with  the  appearance  of  an  ancient 
ruined  castle,  which  seems  to  stand  upon  the 
summit  of  a  little  mount,  the  mountains  around 
forming  an  amphitheatre.  This  massive  bul- 
wark shows  a  front  of  various  towers,  and 
makes  an  awful,  rude,  and  Gothic  appearance, 
with  its  lofty  turrets  and  ragged  battlements ; 
we  traced  the  galleries,  the  bending  arches,  the 
buttresses.  The  greatest  antiquity  stands  char- 
acterized in  its  architecture ;  the  inhabitants 
near  it  assert  it  is  an  antediluvian  structure. 

"The  traveller's  curiosity  is  roused,  and  he 
prepares  to  make  a  nearer  approach,  when  that 
curiosity  is  put  upon  the  rack  by  his  being 
assured  that  if  he  advances,  certain  genii  who 
govern  the  place,  by  virtue  of  their  super- 
natural art  and  necromancy,  will  strip  it  of  all 
its  beauties,  and  bv  enchantment  transform  the 


magic  walls.  The  vale  seems  adapted  for  the 
habitation  of  such  beings ;  its  gloomy  recesses 
and  retirements  look  like  haunts  of  evil  spirits. 
There  was  no  delusion  in  the  report ;  we  were 
soon  convinced  of  its  truth  ;  for  this  piece  of 
antiquity,  so  venerable  and  noble  in  its  aspect, 
as  we  drew  near,  changed  its  figure,  and  proved 
no  other  than  a  shaken  massive  pile  of  rocks, 
which  stand  in  the  midst  of  this  little  vale,  dis- 
united from  the  adjoining  mountains,  and  have 
so  much  the  real  form  and  resemblance  of  a 
castle,  that  they  bear  the  name  of  the  Castle 
Rocks  of  St.  John "  {Hutchinson's  Excursion 
to  the  Lakes,  p.  121). 

13.  The flower  oj  Chivalry,  etc.  The  characters 
named  in  the  stanza  are  all  of  them  more  or 
less  distinguished  in  the  romances  which  treat 
of  King  Arthur  and  his  Round  Table. 

18.  Carodac.  See  the  comic  tale  of  the  Boy 
and  the  Mantle,  in  the  third  volume  of  Percy's 
Peliques  of  Ancient  Poetry,  from  the  Breton 
or  Norman  original  of  which  Ariosto  is  sup- 
posed to  have  taken  his  Tale  of  the  Enchanted 
,Cup. 

Conclusion,  4.  Whose  logic  is  from  "  Single- 
Speech.'"  See  Parliamentary  Logic,  etc.,  by 
the  Right  Honorable  William  Gerard  Hamil- 
ton (1808),  commonly  called  "Single-Speech 
Hamilton." 


QLl)t  Horn  of  tfce  Isles. 


The  composition  of  The  Lord  of  the  Isles,  as 
we  now  have  it  in  the  author's  MS.,  seems  to 
have  been  begun  at  Abbotsford  in  the  autumn 
of  1814,  and  it  ended  at  Edinburgh  the  16th  of 
December.  Some  part  of  Canto  I.  had  proba- 
bly been  committed  to  writing  in  a  rougher  form 
earlier  in  the  year.  The  original  quarto  ap- 
peared on  the  2d  of  January,  181 5. 

The  edition  of  1833  contained  the  following 
introduction :  — 

"  I  could  hardly  have  chosen  a  subject  more 
popular  in  Scotland  than  anything  connected 
with  the  Bruce's  history,  unless  I  had  attempted 
that  of  Wallace.  But  I  am  decidedly  of  opin- 
ion that  a  popular,  or  what  is  called  a  taking, 
title,  though  well  qualified  to  ensure  the  pub- 
lishers against  loss,  and  clear  their  shelves  of 
the  original  impression,  is  rather  apt  to  be 
hazardous  than  otherwise  to  the  reputation  of 
the  author.  He  who  attempts  a  subject  of  dis- 
tinguished popularity  has  not  the  privilege  of 
awakening  the  enthusiasm  of  his  audience ;  on 
the  contrary,  it  is  already  awakened,  and  glows, 
it  may  be,  more  ardently  than  that  of  the  author 
himself.  In  this  case  the  warmth  of  the  author 
is  inferior  to  that  of  the  party  whom  he  ad- 
dresses, who  has  therefore  little  chance  of  be- 
ing, in  Bayes's  phrase, '  elevated  and  surprised ' 


by  what  he  has  thought  of  with  more  enthusi- 
asm than  the  writer.  The  sense  of  this  risk, 
joined  to  the  consciousness  of  striving  against 
wind  and  tide,  made  the  task  of  composing  the 
proposed  Poem  somewhat  heavy  and  hopeless; 
but,  like  the  prize-fighter  in  As  You  Like  It, 
I  was  to  wrestle  for  my  reputation,  and  not 
neglect  any  advantage.  In  a  most  agreeable 
pleasure-voyage,  which  I  have  tried  to  com- 
memorate in  the  Introduction  to  the  new 
edition  of  the  Pirate,  I  visited,  in  social  and 
friendly  company,  the  coasts  and  islands  of 
Scotland,  and  made  myself  acquainted  with 
the  localities  of  which  I  meant  to  treat.  But 
this  voyage,  which  was  in  every  other  effect  so 
delightful,  was  in  its  conclusion  saddened  by 
one  of  those  strokes  of  fate  which  so  often 
mingle  themselves  with  our  pleasures.  The 
accomplished  and  excellent  person  who  had 
recommended  to  me  the  subject  for  The  Lay  of 
the  Last  Minstrel,  and  to  whom  I  proposed  to 
inscribe  what  I  already  suspected  might  be  the 
close  of  my  poetical  labors,  was  unexpectedly 
removed  from  the  world,  which  she  seemed 
only  to  have  visited  for  purposes  of  kindness 
and  benevolence.  It  is  needless  to  say  how 
the  author's  feelings,  or  the  composition  of  his 
trifling  work,  were  affected  by  a  circumstance 
which  occasioned  so  many  tears  and  so  mucl? 


6i6 


NOTES. 


sorrow.  True  it  is,  that  The  Lord  of  the  Isles 
was  concluded,  unwillingly  and  in  haste,  under 
the  painful  feeling  of  one  who  has  a  task  which 
must  be  finished,  rather  than  with  the  ardor 
of  one  who  endeavors  to  perform  that  task 
well.  Although  the  Poem  cannot  be  said  to 
have  made  a  favorable  impression  on  the 
public,  the  sale  of  fifteen  thousand  copies  en- 
abled the  Author  to  retreat  from  the  field  with 
the  honors  of  war. 

"  In  the  mean  time,  what  was  necessarily  to  be 
considered  as  a  failure  was  much  reconciled  to 
my  feelings  by  the  success  attending  my  attempt 
in  another  species  of  composition.  Waverley 
had,  under  strict  incognito,  taken  its  flight  from 
the  press,  just  before  I  set  out  upon  the  voyage 
already  mentioned  ;  it  had  now  made  its  way  to 
popularity,  and  the  success  of  that  work  and  the 
volumes  which  followed  was  sufficient  to  have 
satisfied  a  greater  appetite  for  applause  than  I 
have  at  any  time  possessed. 

"  I  may  as  well  add  in  this  place  that,  being 
much  urged  by  my  intimate  friend,  now  unhap- 
pily no  more,  William  Erskine  (a  Scottish  judge, 
by  the  title  of  Lord  Kinedder),  I  agreed  to  write 
the  little  romantic  tale  called  the  Bridal  of  Trier- 
main  ;  but  it  was  on  the  condition  that  he  should 
make  no  serious  effort  to  disown  the  composi- 
tion, if  report  should  lay  it  at  his  door.  As  he 
was  more  than  suspected  of  a  taste  for  poetry, 
and  as  I  took  care,  in  several  places,  to  mix 
something  which  might  resemble  (as  far  as  was 
in  my  power)  my  friend's  feeling  and  manner, 
the  train  easily  caught,  and  two  large  editions 
were  sold.  A  third  being  called  for,  Lord 
Kinedder  became  unwilling  to  aid  any  longer 
a  deception  which  was  going  farther  than  he 
expected  or  desired,  and  the  real  author's  name 
was  given.  Upon  another  occasion  I  sent  up 
another  of  these  trifles,  which,  like  schoolboys' 
kites,  served  to  show  how  the  wind  of  popular 
taste  was  setting.  The  manner  was  supposed 
to  be  that  of  a  rude  minstrel  or  Scald,  in  oppo- 
sition to  the  Bridal  of  Triermain,  which  was 
designed  to  belong  rather  to  the  Italian  school. 
This  new  fugitive  piece  was  called  Harold  the 
Dauntless ;  and  I  am  still  astonished  at  my 
having  committed  the  gross  error  of  selecting 
the  very  name  which  Lord  Byron  had  made  so 
famous.  It  encountered  rather  an  odd  fate. 
My  ingenious  friend,  Mr.  James  Hogg,  had  pub- 
lished, about  the  same  time,  a  work  called  the 
Poetic  Mirror,  containing  imitations  of  the  prin- 
cipal living  poets.  There  was  in  it  a  very  good 
imitation  of  my  own  style*  which  bore  such  a 
dance  to  Harold  the  Dauntless  that  there 
WM  no  discovering  the  original  from  the  imita- 
tion; and  I  believe  that  many  who  took  the 
trouble  of  thinking  upon  the  subject  were 
rather  of  opinion  that  my  ingenious  friend 
was  the  true,  and  not  the  fictitious,  Simon 
Pure.  Since  this  period,  which  was  in  the 
[817,  the  Author  has  not  been  an  intru- 
der on  the  public  by  any  poetical  work  of  im- 
portance. 

"Am:'  //;-//,  1830." 


CANTO    FIRST. 

1.  Thy  rugged  halls,  Art  Ornish  Krung.  The 
ruins  of  the  castle  of  Artornish  are  situated 
upon  a  promontory  on  the  Morven,  or  mainland 
side  of  the  Sound  of  Mull,  a  name  given  to  the 
deep  arm  of  the  sea  which  divides  that  island 
from  the  continent.  The  situation  is  wild  and 
romantic  in  the  highest  degree,  having  on  the 
one  hand  a  high  and  precipitous  chain  of  rocks 
overhanging  the  sea,  and  on  the  other  the  nar- 
row entrance  to  the  beautiful  salt-water  lake, 
called  Loch  Alline,  which  is  in 'many  places 
finely  fringed  with  copsewood.  The  ruins  of 
Artornish  are  not  now  very  considerable,  and 
consist  chiefly  of  the  remains  of  an  old  keep,  or 
tower,  with  fragments  of  outward  defences.  But 
in  former  days  it  was  a  place  of  great  con- 
sequence, being  one  of  the  principal  strongholds 
which  the  Lords  of  the  Isles,  during  the  period 
of  their  stormy  independence,  possessed  upon 
the  mainland  of  Argyleshire. 

2.  Rude  Heiskar's  seal  through  surges  dark, 
etc.  The  seal  displays  a  taste  for  music,  which 
could  scarcely  be  expected  from  his  habits  and 
local  predilections.  They  will  long  follow  a 
boat  in  which  any  musical  instrument  is  played, 
and  even  a  tune  simply  whistled  has  attractions 
for  them.  The  Dean  of  the  Isles  says  of  Heiskar, 
a  small  uninhabited  rock,  about  twelve  (Scottish-) 
miles  from  the  isle  of  Uist,  that  an  infinite 
slaughter  of  seals  takes  place  there. 

7.  Overlooked,  dark  Mull !  thy  mighty  Sou /id. 
The  Sound  of  Mull,  which  divides  that  island 
from  the  continent  of  Scotland,  is  one  of  the 
most  striking  scenes  which  the  Hebrides  afford 
to  the  traveller.  Sailing  from  Oban  to  Aros,  or 
Tobermory,  through  a  narrow  channel,  yet  deep 
enough  to  bear  vessels  of  the  largest  burden, 
he  has  on  his  left  the  bold  and  mountainous 
shores  of  Mull ;  on  the  right  those  of  that  dis- 
trict of  Argyleshire  called  Morven,  or  Morvern, 
successively  indented  by  deep  salt-water  lochs, 
running  up  many  miles  inland.  To  the  south- 
eastward arise  a  prodigious  range  of  mountains, 
among  which  Cruachan-Ben  is  pre-eminent. 
And  to  the  northeast  is  the  no  less  huge  and 
picturesque  range  of  the  Ardnamurchan  hills. 
Many  ruinous  castles,  situated  generally  upon 
cliffs  overhanging  the  ocean,  add  interest  to  the 
scene. 

8.  Mingarry  sternly  placed,  etc.  The  castle 
of  Mingarry  is  situated  on  the  sea-coast  of  the 
district  of  Ardnamurchan.  The  ruins,  which 
are  tolerably  entire,  are  surrounded  by  a  very 
high  wall,  forming  a  kind  of  polygon,  for  the 
purpose  of  adapting  itself  to  the  projecting 
angles  of  a  precipice  overhanging  the  sea,  on 
which  the  castle  stands.  It  was  anciently  the 
residence  of  the  Mac-Ians,  a  clan  of  Mac- 
Donalds,  descended  from  Ian,  or  John,  a  grand- 
son of  Angus  Og,  Lord  of  the  Isles. 

8.  The  heir  of  mighty  Somerled.  Somerled 
was  thane  of  Argyle  and  Lord  of  the  Isles, 
about  the  middle  of  the  twelfth  century.  He 
seems  to  have  exercised  his  authority  in  both 
capacities,  independent  of  the  crown  of  Scot- 


THE  LORD   OF   THE  ISLES. 


6,7 


land,  against  which  he  often  stood  in  hostility. 
He  made  various  incursions  upon  the  western 
lowlands  during  the  reign  of  Malcolm  IV.,  and 
seems  to  have  made  peace  with  him  upon  the 
terms  of  an  independent  prince,  about  the  year 
1 157.  In  1 164  he  resumed  the  war  against 
Malcolm,  and  invaded  Scotland  with  a  large 
but  probably  a  tumultuary  army,  collected  in 
the  isles,  in  the  mainland  of  Argyleshire,  and  in 
the  neighboring  provinces  of  Ireland.  He  was 
defeated  and  slain  in  an  engagement  with  a 
very  inferior  force,  near  Renfrew. 

8.  Lord  of  the  Isles.  The  representative  of 
this  independent  principality  —  for  such  it  seems 
to  have  been,  though  acknowledging  occasion- 
ally the  pre-eminence  of  the  Scottish  crown  — 
was,  at  the  period  of  the  poem,  Angus,  called 
Angus  Og  ;  but  the  name  has  been,  euphonice 
gratia,  exchanged  for  that  of  Ronald,  which  fre- 
quently occurs  in  the  genealogy.  Angus  was  a 
protector  of  Robert  Bruce,  whom  he  received 
in  his  castle  of  Dunnaverty,  during  the  time  of 
his  greatest  distress. 

n.  The  House  of  Lorn.  The  House  of  Lorn 
was,  like  the  Lord  of  the  Isles,  descended  from 
a  son  of  Somerled,  slain  at  Renfrew,  in  1164. 
This  son  obtained  the  succession  of  his  main- 
land territories,  comprehending  the  greater  part 
of  the  three  districts  of  Lorn,  in  Argyleshire, 
and  of  course  might  rather  be  considered  as 
petty  princes  than  feudal  barons.  They  as- 
sumed the  patronymic  appellation  of  Mac- 
Dougal,  by  which  they  are  distinguished  in  the 
history  of  the  middle  ages. 

21.  The  mimic  fires  of  ocean  glow,  etc.  The 
phenomenon  called  by  sailors  Sea-fire  is  one  of 
the  most  beautiful  and  interesting  which  is  wit- 
nessed in  the  Hebrides.  At  times  the  ocean 
appears  entirely  illuminated  around  the  vessel, 
and  a  long  train  of  lambent  coruscations  are 
perpetually  bursting  upon  the  sides  of  the  ves- 
sel, or  pursuing  her  wake  through  the  darkness. 

24.  The  dark  fortress.  The  fortress  of  a  Heb- 
ridean  chief  was  almost  always  on  the  sea-shore, 
for  the  facility  of  communication  which  the 
ocean  afforded.  Nothing  can  be  more  wild 
than  the  situations  which  they  chose,  and  the 
devices  by  which  the  architects  endeavored  to 
defend  them.  Narrow  stairs  and  arched  vaults 
were  the  usual  mode  of  access ;  and  the  draw- 
bridge appears  at  Dunstaffnage,  and  elsewhere, 
to  have  fallen  from  the  gate  of  the  building  to 
the  top  of  such  a  staircase  ;  so  that  any  one 
advancing  with  hostile  purpose,  found  himself 
in  a  state  of  exposed  and  precarious  elevation, 
with  a  gulf  between  him  and  the  object  of  his 
attack. 


CANTO    SECOND. 

3.  That  keen  knight,  De  Argentine.  SirEgidius, 
or  Giles  de  Argentine,  was  one  of  the  most 
accomplished  knights  of  the  period.  He  had 
served  in  the  wars  of  Henry  of  Luxemburg  with 
such  high  reputation  that  he  was,  in  popular 
estimation,  the  third  worthy  of  the  age.     Those 


to  whom  fame  assigned  precedence  over  him 
were,  Henry  of  Luxemburg  himself,  and  Robert 
Bruce.  Argentine  had  warred  in  Palestine,- 
encountered  thrice  with  the  Saracens,  and  had 
slain  two  antagonists  in  each  engagement:  an 
easy  matter,  he  said,  for  one  Christian  knight 
to  slay  two  Pagan  dogs.  His  death  corresponded 
with  his  high  character.  With  Aymer  de 
Valence,  Earl  of  Pembroke,  he  was  appointed  to 
attend  immediately  upon  the  person  of  Edward 
.II.  at  Bannockburn.  When  the  day  was  utterly 
lost  they  forced  the  king  from  the  field.  De 
Argentine  saw  the  king  safe  from  immediate 
danger,  and  then  took  his  leave  of  him ;  "  God 
be  with  you,  sir,"  he  said,  "  it  is  not  my  wont 
to  fly."  So  saying,  he  turned  his  horse,  cried 
his  war-cry,  plunged  into  the  midst  of  the  com- 
batants, and  was  slain. 

4.  "  Fill  me  the  mighty  cup  !  "  he  said,  etc.  A 
Hebridean  drinking-cup,  of  the  most  ancient 
and  curious  workmanship,  has  been  long  pre- 
served in  the  castle  of  Dunvegan,  in  Skye,  the 
romantic  seat  of  Mac-Leod  of  Mac-Leod,  the 
chief  of  that  ancient  and  powerful  clan.  This 
very  curious  piece  of  antiquity  is  nine  inches 
and  three  quarters  in  inside  depth,  and  ten  and 
a  half  in  height  on  the  outside,  the  extreme 
measure  over  the  lips  being  four  inches  and 
a  half.  The  cup  is  made  of  wood  (oak  to  all 
appearance),  but  most  curiously  wrought  and 
embossed  with  silver  work,  which  projects  from 
the  vessel.  The  workmanship  of  the  silver  is 
extremely  elegant,  and  appears  to  have  been 
highly  gilded.  The  ledge,  brim,  and  legs  of 
the  cup  are  of  silver. 

9.  With  Carrick's  outlawed  Chief.  It  must  be 
remembered  by  all  who  have  read  the  Scottish 
history,  that  after  he  had  slain  Comyn  at  Dum- 
fries, and  asserted  his  right  to  the  Scottish 
crown,  Robert  Bruce  was  reduced  to  the  great- 
est extremity  by  the  English  and  their  adherents. 
He  was  crowned  at  Scone  by  the  general  con- 
sent of  the  Scottish  barons,  but  his  authority 
endured  but  a  short  time.  According  to  the 
phrase  said  to  have  been  used  by  his  wife,  he 
was  for  that  year  "  a  summer  king,  but  not  a 
winter  one." 

II.  The  Brooch  of  Lorn.  Robert  Bruce, 
after  his  defeat  at  Methven,  being  hard  pressed 
by  the  English,  endeavored,  with  the  dispirited 
remnant  of  his  followers,  to  escape  from 
Breadalbane  and  the  mountains  of  Perthshire 
into  the  Argyleshire  Highlands.  But  he  was 
encountered  and  repulsed,  after  a  very  severe 
engagement,  by  the  Lord  of  Lorn.  Bruce's 
personal  strength  and  courage  were  never  dis- 
played to  greater  advantage  than  in  this  con- 
flict. There  is  a  tradition  in  the  family  of  the 
Mac-Dougals  of  Lorn,  that  their  chieftain  en- 
gaged  in  personal  battle  with  Bruce  himself, 
while  the  latter  was  employed  in  protecting  the 
retreat  of  his  men ;  that  Mac-Dougal  was 
struck  down  by  the  king,  whose  strength  of 
body  was  equal  to  his  vigor  of  mind,  and 
would  have  been  slain  on  the  spot,  had  not 
two  of  Lorn's  vassals,  a  father  and  son,  whom 
tradition  terms  Mac-Keoch,   rescued    him,   by 


6i8 


NOTES. 


seizing  the  mantle  of  the  monarch,  and  dragging 
him  from  above  his  adversary.  Bruce  rid  him- 
self of  these  foes  by  two  blovvs  of  his  redoubted 
battle-axe,  but  was  so  closely  pressed  by  the 
other  followers  of  Lorn,  that  he  was  forced  to 
abandon  the  mantle,  and  brooch  which  fastened 
it,  clasped  in  the  dying  grasp  of  the  Mac- 
Keochs.  A  studded  brooch,  said  to  have  been 
that  which  King  Robert  lost  upon  this  occa- 
sion, was  long  preserved  in  the  family  of  Mac- 
Dougal,  and  was  lost  in  a  fire  which  consumed 
their  temporary  residence. 

13.  Vain  was  then  the  Douglas  brand,  etc. 
The  gallant  Sir  James,  called  the  Good  Lord 
Douglas,  the  most  faithful  and  valiant  of  Bruce's 
adherents,  was  wounded  at  the  battle  of  Dairy. 
Sir  Nigel,  or  Neil  Campbell,  was  also  in  that 
unfortunate  skirmish.  He  married  Marjorie, 
sister  to  Robert  Bruce,  and  was  among  his  most 
faithful  followers. 

13.  Vain  Kirkpatrick' s  bloody  dirk,  etc.  The 
proximate  cause  of  Bruce's  asserting  his  right 
to  the  crown  of  Scotland  was  the  death  of 
John,  called  the  Red  Comyn.  (See  canto  i.  st. 
27.)  The  causes  of  this  act  of  violence,  equally 
extraordinary  from  the  high  rank  both  of  the 
perpetrator  and  sufferer,  and  from  the  place 
where  the  slaughter  was  committed,  are  vari- 
ously related  by  the  Scottish  and  English  his- 
torians, and  cannot  now  be  ascertained.  The 
fact  that  they  met  at  the  high  altar  of  the  Minor- 
ites, or  Greyfriar's  Church  in  Dumfries,  that 
their  difference  broke  out  into  high  and  insult- 
ing language,  and  that  Bruce  drew  his  dagger 
and  stabbed  Comyn,  is  certain.  Rushing  to 
the  door  of  the  church,  Bruce  met  two  power- 
ful barons,  Kirkpatrick  of  Closeburn,  and  James 
de  Lindsay,  who  eagerly  asked  him  what  tid- 
ings ?  "  Bad  tidings,"  answered  Bruce  ;  "  I 
doubt  I  have  slain  Comyn."  —  "  Doubtest 
thou?"  said  Kirkpatrick;  "I  make  sicker" 
(/'.  e.  sure).  With  these  words,  he  and  Lindsay 
rushed  into  the  church,  and  despatched  the 
wounded  Comyn-  The  Kirkpatricks  of  Close- 
burn  assumed,  in  memory  of  this  deed,  a  hand 
holding  a  dagger,  with  the  memorable  words, 
"  I  make  sicker." 

13.  Barendown  fled  fast  away,  etc.  These 
knights  are  enumerated  by  Barbour  among  the 
small  number  of  Bruce's  adherents,  who  re- 
mained in  arms  with  him  after  the  battle  of 
Methven. 

25.  Was't  not  enough  to  Ronald's  bower,  etc. 
It  was  anciently  customary  in  the  Highlands  to 
bring  the  bride  to  the  house  of  the  husband. 
Nay,  in  some  cases  the  complaisance  was 
stretched  so  far  that  she  remained  there  upon 
trial  for  a  twelvemonth  ;  and  the  bridegroom, 
even   after  this  period,  retained   an  option  of 

as  to  fulfil  his  engagement. 

26.  Since  mat,  //less  Wallace,  etc.  There  is 
something  singularly  doubtful  about  the  mode 
in   which    Wallace  was  taken.     That   he   was 

1  to  the  English  i-,  indubitable;  and 
popular  fame  charges  Sir  John  Menteith  with 
the  indelible  infamy.  "Accursed,"  says  Arnold 
Blair,  "  be  the  day  of  nativity  of  John  de  Men- 


teith, and  may  his  name  be  struck  out  of  the 
book  of  life."  But  John  de  Menteith  was  ail 
along  a  zealous  favorer  of  the  English  interest, 
and  was  governor  of  Dumbarton  Castle  by  com- 
mission from  Edward  the  First ;  and  therefore, 
as  the  accurate  Lord  Hailes  has  observed, 
could  not  be  the  friend  and  confidant  of  Wallace, 
as  tradition  states  him  to  be.  The  truth  seems 
to  be  that  Menteith,  thoroughly  engaged  in  the 
English  interest,  pursued  Wallace  closely,  and 
made  him  prisoner  through  the  treachery  of  an 
attendant,  whom  Peter  Langtoft  calls  Jack 
Short. 

26.  Was  not  the  life  of A  thole  shed,  etc.  John 
de  Strathbogie,  Earl  of  Athole,  had  attempted 
to  escape  out  of  the  kingdom,  but  a  storm  cast 
him  upon  the  coast,  when  he  was  taken,  sent 
to  London,  and  executed,  with  circumstances 
of  great  barbarity,  being  first  half  strangled, 
then  let  down  from  the  gallows  while  yet  alive, 
barbarously  dismembered,  and  his  body  burnt. 
It  may  surprise  the  reader  to  learn  that  this 
was  a  mitigated  punishment;  for  in  respect 
that  his  mother  was  a  granddaughter  of  King 
John,  by  his  natural  son  Richard,  he  was  not 
drawn  on  a  sledge  to  execution,  "  that  point  was 
forgiven,"  and  he  made  the  passage  on  horse- 
back. Matthew  of  Westminster  tells  us  that 
King  Edward,  then  extremely  ill,  received  great 
ease  from  the  news  that  his  relative  was  appre- 
hended. "  Quo  audito,  Rex  Anglian,  etsi  gravis- 
simo  morbo  tti7ic  langueret,  levins  tamen  tulit 
dolorem."  To  this  singular  expression  the  text 
alludes. 

29.  While  I  the  blessed  cross  advance,  etc. 
Bruce  uniformly  professed,  and  probably  felt, 
compunction  for  having  violated  the  sanctuary 
of  the  church  by  the  slaughter  of  Comyn;  and 
finally,  in  his  last  hours,  in  testimony  of  his 
faith,  penitence,  and  zeal,  he  requested  James 
Lord  Douglas  to  carry  his  heart  to  Jerusalem, 
to  be  there  deposited  in  the  Holy  Sepulchre. 

3 1 .  De  Brtice  I  I  rose  with  purpose  dread,  etc. 
So  soon  as  the  notice  of  Comyn's  slaughter 
reached  Rome,  Bruce  and  his  adherents  were 
excommunicated.  It  was  published  first  by  the 
Archbishop  of  York,  and  renewed  at  different 
times,  particularly  by  Lambyrton,  Bishop  of  St. 
Andrews,  in  1308 ;  but  it  does  not  appear  to 
have  answered  the  purpose  which  the  English 
monarch  expected.  Indeed,  for  reasons  which 
it  may  be  difficult  to  trace,  the  thunders  of 
Rome  descended  upon  the  Scottish  mountains 
with  less  effect  than  in  more  fertile  countries. 
Many  of  the  Scottish  prelates,  Lambyrton  the 
primate  particularly,  declared  for  Bruce,  while 
he  was  yet  under  the  ban  of  the  church,  although 
he  afterwards  again  changed  sides. 


CANTO   THIRD. 

8.  "  Alas  !  dear  youth,  the  unhappy  time,"  etc. 
I  have  followed  the  vulgar  and  inaccurate  tra- 
dition, that  Bruce  fought  against  Wallace  and 
the  array  of  Scotland,  at  the  fatal  battle  of  Fal- 


THE   LORD   OF  THE  ISLES. 


619 


kirk.  The  story,  which  seems  to  have  no  bet- 
ter authority  than  that  of  Blind  Harry,  bears, 
that  having  made  much  slaughter  during  the 
engagement,  he  sat  down  to  dine  with  the  con- 
querors without  washing  the  filthy  witness  from 
his  hands. 

12.  These  are  the  savage  wilds  that  lie,  etc. 
The  extraordinary  piece  of  scenery  which  I 
have  here  attempted  to  describe  is,  I  think, 
unparalleled  in  any  part  of  Scotland,  at  least  in 
any  which  I  have  happened  to  visit.  It  lies  just 
upon  the  frontier  of  the  Laird  of  Mac-Leod's 
country,  which  is  thereabouts  divided  from  the 
estate  of  Mr.  Maccalister  of  Strath-Aird,  called 
Strathnardill  by  the  Dean  of  the  Isles. 

19.  Men  were  they  all  of  evil  mien,  etc.  The 
story  of  Bruce's  meeting  the  banditti  is  copied, 
with  such  alterations  as  the  fictitious  narrative 
rendered  necessary,  from  a  striking  incident  in 
the  monarch's  history,  told  by  Barbour. 

28.  And  mermaid's  alabaster  grot,  etc.  Imagi- 
nation can  hardly  conceive  anything  more  beau- 
tiful than  the  extraordinary  grotto  discovered 
not  many  years  since  upon  the  estate  of  Alex- 
ander Mac-Allister,  Esq.,  of  Strathaird.  It  has 
since  been  much  and  deservedly  celebrated,  and 
a  full  account  of  its  beauties  has  been  published 
by  Dr.  Mac-Leay  of  Oban. 


CANTO   FOURTH. 

4.  Yet  to  no  sense  of  selfish  wrongs,  etc.  The 
generosity  which  does  justice  to  the  character 
of  an  enemy  often  marks  Bruce's  sentiments, 
as  recorded  by  the  faithful  Barbour.  He  sel- 
dom mentions  a  fallen  enemy  without  praising 
such  good  qualities  as  he  might  possess. 

4.  Such  hate  was  his  on  Solway's  strand,  etc. 
To  establish  his  dominion  in  Scotland  had 
been  a  favorite  object  of  Edward's  ambition, 
and  nothing  could  exceed  the  pertinacity  with 
which  he  pursued  it,  unless  his  inveterate  resent- 
ment against  the  insurgents,  who  so  frequently 
broke  the  English  yoke  when  he  deemed  it  most 
firmly  riveted.  After  the  battles  of  Falkirk  and 
Methven,  and  the  dreadful  examples  which  he 
had  made  of  Wallace  and  other  champions  of 
national  independence,  he  probably  concluded 
every  chance  of  insurrection  was  completely 
annihilated.  This  was  in  1306,  when  Bruce, 
as  we  have  seen,  was  utterly  expelled  from 
Scotland  r  yet,  in  the  conclusion  of  the  same 
year,  Bruce  was  again  in  arms  and  formidable ; 
and  in  1307,  Edward,  though  exhausted  by  a 
long  and  wasting  malady,  put  himself  at  the 
head  of  the  army  destined  to  destroy  him  utterly. 
But  even  his  spirit  of  vengeance  was  unable  to 
restore  his  exhausted  strength.  He  reached 
Burgh-upon-Sands,  a  petty  village  of  Cumber- 
land, on  the  shores  of  the  Solway  Firth,  and 
there,  6th  July,  1307,  expired  in  sight  of  the 
detested  and  devoted  country  of  Scotland.  His 
dying  injunctions  to  his  son  required  him  to 
continue  the  Scottish  war,  and  never  to  recall 
Gaveston. 


8.  Carina's  tower,  that,  steep  and  gray,  etc. 
The  little  island  of  Canna,  or  Cannay,  adjoins 
to  those  of  Rum  and  Muick,  with  which  it 
forms  one  parish.  In  a  pretty  bay  opening 
towards  the  east,  there  is  a  lofty  and  slender 
rock  detached  from  the  shore.  Upon  the  sum- 
mit are  the  ruins  of  a  very  small  tower,  scarcely 
accessible  by  a  steep  and  precipitous  path. 
Here,  it  is  said,  one  of  the  kings,  or  Lords  of 
the  Isles,  confined  a  beautiful  lady,  of  whom  he 
was  jealous.  The  ruins  are  of  course  haunted 
by  her  restless  spirit,  and  many  romantic  stories 
are  told  by  the  aged  people  of  the  island  con- 
cerning her  fate  in  life,  and  her  appearances 
after  death. 

9.  And  Ronin's  mountains  dark  have  sent,  etc. 
Ronin  (popularly  called  Rum)  is  a  very  rough 
and  mountainous  island,  adjacent  to  those  of 
Eigg  and  Cannay.  There  is  almost  no  arable 
ground  upon  it. 

9.  On  Scooreigg  next  a  warning  light,  etc. 
These,  and  the  following  lines  of  the  stanza, 
refer  to  a  dreadful  tale  of  feudal  vengeance. 
Scoor-Eigg  is  a  high  peak  in  the  centre  of  the 
small  Isle  of  Eigg,  or  Egg.  The  Mac-Donalds 
of  the  Isle  of  Egg,  a  people  dependent  on  Clan- 
Ranald,  had  done  some  injury  to  the  Laird  of 
Mac-Leod.  The  tradition  of  the  isle  says  that . 
it  was  by  a  personal  attack  on  the  chieftain,  in 
which  his  back  was  broken.  But  that  of  the 
other  isles  bears,  more  probably,  that  the  injury 
was  offered  to  two  or  three  of  the  Mac-Leods, 
who,  landing  upon  Eigg,  and  using  some  free- 
dom with  the  young  women,  were  seized  by  the 
islanders,  bound  hand  and  foot,  and  turned 
adrift  in  a  boat,  which  the  winds  and  waves 
safely  conducted  to  Skye.  To  avenge  the 
offence  given,  Mac-Leod  sailed  with  such  a  body 
of  men  as  rendered  resistance  hopeless.  The 
natives,  fearing  his  vengeance,  concealed  them- 
selves in  this  cavern,  and,  after  a  strict  search, 
the  Mac-Leods  went  on  board  their  galleys, 
after  doing  what  mischief  they  could,  concluding 
the  inhabitants  had  left  the  isle,  and  betaken 
themselves  to  the  Long  Island,  or  some  of  Clan- 
Ranald's  other  possessions.  But  next  morning 
they  espied  from  the  vessels  a  man  upon  the 
island,  and  immediately  landing  again,  they 
traced  his  retreat  by  the  marks  of  his  footsteps, 
a  light  snow  being  unhappily  on  the  ground. 
Mac-Leod  then  surrounded  the  cavern,  sum- 
moned the  subterranean  garrison,  and  demanded 
that  the  individuals  who  had  offended  him 
should  be  delivered  up  to  him.  This  was  per- 
emptorily refused.  The  chieftain  then  caused 
his  people  to  divert  the  course  of  a  rill  of  water, 
which,  falling  over  the  entrance  of  the  cave, 
would  have  prevented  his  purposed  vengeance. 
He  then  kindled,  at  the  entrance  of  the  cavern, 
a  huge  fire,  composed  of  turf  and  fern,  and 
maintained  it  with  unrelenting  assiduity,  until 
all  within  were  destroyed  by  suffocation. 

II.  Scenes  sung  by  him  who  sings  no  more. 
The  ballad,  entitled  Macphail  of  Colonsay,  and 
the  Mermaid  of  Co7-rievrekin,  was  composed 
by  John  Leyden,  from  a  tradition  which  he 
found  while  making  a  tour  through  the  Hel> 


620 


NOTES. 


rides  about  1801,  soon  before  his  fatal  departure 
for  India,  where  he  died  a  martyr  to  his  zeal 
for  knowledge,  in  the  island  of  Java,  immedi- 
ately after  the  landing  of  our  forces  near  Ba- 
tavia,  in  August,  181 1. 

12.  Up  Tarbafs  western  lake  they  bore,  etc. 
The  peninsula  of  Cantire  is  joined  to  South 
Knapdale  by  a  very  narrow  isthmus,  formed  by 
the  western  and  eastern  Loch  of  Tarbat.  These 
two  salt-water  lakes,  or  bays,  encroach  so  far 
upon  the  land,  and  the  extremities  come  so  near 
to  each  other,  that  there  is  not  above  a  mile  of 
land  to  divide  them. 

13.  Ben-Ghoil,  '■'■the  Mountain  of  the  Wind" 
etc.  Loch  Ranza  is  a  beautiful  bay,  on  the, 
northern  extremity  of  Arran,  opening  towards 
East  Tarbat  Loch.  Ben-Ghaoil,  "  the  mountain 
of  the  winds,"  is  generally  known  by  its  English, 
and  less  poetical, name  of  Goatfield. 

20.  His  brother  blamed,  etc.  The  kind  and 
vet  fiery  character  of  Edward  Bruce  is  well 
painted  by  Barbour,  in  the  account  of  his  be- 
havior after  the  battle  of  Bannockburn.  Sir 
Walter  Ross,  one  of  the  very  few  Scottish 
nobles  who  fell  in  that  battle,  was  so  dearly 
beloved  by  Edward,  that  he  wished  the  victory 
had  been  lost,  so  Ross  had  lived. 

27.  Thou  heardst  a  wretched  female  plain, 
etc.  This  incident,  which  illustrates  so  happily 
the  chivalrous  generosity  of  Bruce 's  character, 
is  one  of  the  many  simple  and  natural  traits 
recorded  by  Barbour.  It  occurred  during  the 
expedition  which  Bruce  made  to  Ireland,  to 
support  the  pretensions  of  his  brother  Edward 
to  the  throne  of  that  kingdom.  Bruce  was 
about  to  retreat,  and  his  host  was  arrayed  for 
moving. 


CANTO    FIFTH. 

6.  O'er  chasms  he  passed,  ivhere  fractures  wide, 
etc.  The  interior  of  the  Island  of  Arran  abounds 
with  beautiful  Highland  scenery.  The  hills, 
being  very  rocky  and  precipitous,  afford  some 
cataracts  of  great  height,  though  of  inconsider- 
able breadth.  There  is  one  pass  over  the  river 
Machrai,  renowned  for  the  dilemma  of  a  poor 
woman,  who,  being  tempted  by  the  narrowness 
of  the  ravine  to  step  across,  succeeded  in  mak- 
ing the  first  movement,  but  took  fright  when  it 
became  necessary  to  move  the  other  foot,  and 
remained  in  a  posture  equally  ludicrous  and 
dangerous,  until  some  chance  passenger  assisted 
her  to  extricate  herself.  It  is  said  she  remained 
there  some  hours. 

6.  Where  Druids  erst  heard  victims  groan,  etc. 
The  Isle  of  Arran,  like  those  of  Man  and  Angle- 
sea,  abounds  with  many  relics  of  heathen,  and 
probably  Druidical,  superstition.  There  are 
high  erect  columns  of  unhewn  stone,  circles  of 
rode  stones,  and  cairns,  or  sepulchral  piles, 
within  which  are  usually  found  urns  enclosing 
ashes. 

6.  Old  Brodick's  gothic  towers  were  seen,  etc. 
Brodick  or  Brathwick  Castle,  in  the  Isle  of 
Arran,   is   an   ancient   fortress,  near  an   open 


roadstead  called  Brodick-Bay,  and  not  far  dis- 
tant from  a  tolerable  harbor,  closed  in  by  the 
Island  of  Lamlash.  This  important  place  had 
been  assailed  a  short  time  before  Bruce's  arrival 
in  the  island.  James  Lord  Douglas,  who  accom- 
panied Bruce  to  his  retreat  in  Rachrine,  seems, 
in  the  spring  of  1306,  to  have  tired  of  his  abode 
there,  and  set  out  accordingly,  in  the  phrase  of 
the  times,  to  see  what  adventure  God  would 
send  him.  Sir  Robert  Boyd  accompanied  him; 
and  his  knowledge  of  the  localities  of  Arran 
appears  to  have  directed  his  course  thither. 
They  landed  in  the  island  privately,  and  appear 
to  have  laid  an  ambush  for  Sir  John  Hastings, 
the  English  governor  of  Brodwick,  and  sur- 
prised a  considerable  supply  of  arms  and  pro- 
visions, and  nearly  took  the  castle  itself.  Indeed, 
that  they  actually  did  so,  has  been  generally 
averred  by  historians,  although  it  does  not 
appear  from  the  narrative  of  Barbour.  On  the 
contrary,  it  would  seem  that  they  took  shelter 
within  a  fortification  of  the  ancient  inhabitants, 
a  rampart  called  Tor  an  Schian.  When  they 
were  joined  by  Bruce,  it  seems  probable  that 
they  had  gained  Brodick  Castle. 

7.  A  language  mtich  unmeet  he  hears.  Barbour, 
with  great  simplicity,  gives  an  anecdote,  from 
which  it  would  seem  that  the  vice  of  profane 
swearing,  afterwards  too  general  among  the 
Scottish  nation,  was,  at  this  time,  confined  to 
military  men.  As  Douglas,  after  Bruce's  return 
to  Scotland,  was  roving  about  the  mountainous 
country  of  Tweeddale,  near  the  water  of  Line, 
he  chanced  to  hear  some  persons  in  a  farm- 
house say  "  the  devil."  Concluding,  from  this 
hardy  expression,  that  the  house  contained  war- 
like guests,  he  immediately  assailed  it,  and  had 
the  good  fortune  to  make  prisoners  Thomas 
Randolph,  afterwards  the  famous  Earl  of  Mur- 
ray, and  Alexander  Stuart,  Lord  Bonkle.  Both 
were  then  in  the  English  interest,  and  had  come 
into  that  country  with  the  purpose  of  driving 
out  Douglas.  They  afterwards  ranked  among 
Bruce's  most  zealous  adherents. 

17.  Now  ask  you  whence  that  wondrous  light, 
etc.  "  The  only  tradition  now  remembered  of  the 
landing  of  Robert  the  Bruce  in  Carrick,  relates 
to  the  fire  seen  by  him  from  the  Isle  of  Arran. 
It  is  still  generally  reported,  and  religiously 
believed  by  many,  that  this  fire  was  really  the 
work  of  supernatural  power,  unassisted  by  the 
hand  of  any  mortal  being ;  and  it  is  said  that 
for  several  centuries  the  flame  rose  yearly  on 
the  same  hour  of  the  same  night  of  the  year  on 
which  the  king  first  saw  it  from  the  turrets  of 
Brodick  Castle;  and  some  go  so  far  as  to  say 
that  if  the  exact  time  were  known,  it  would  be 
still  seen.  That  this  superstitious  notion  is  very 
ancient,  is  evident  from  the  place  where  the  fire 
is  said  to  have  appeared,  being  called  the  Bogles' 
Brae,  beyond  the  remembrance  of  man.  In 
support  of  this  curious  belief,  it  is  said  that  the 
practice  of  burning  heath  for  the  improvement 
of  land  was  then  unknown;  that  a  spunkie 
(Jack  o'lanthorn)  could  not  have  been  seen 
across  the  breadth  of  the  Forth  of  Clyde,  be- 
tween Ayrshire  and  Arran ;  and  that  the  courier 


THE  LORD   OF  THE  ISLES. 


621 


of  Bruce  was  his  kinsman,  and  never  suspected 
of  treachery"  {Letter  from  Mr.  Joseph  Trai?i, 
of  Neivton  Stuart) . 

33.  The  Bruce  hath  won  his  father's  hall ! 
I  have  followed  the  flattering  and  pleasing  tra- 
dition, that  the  Bruce,  after  his  descent  upon 
the  coast  of  Ayrshire,  actually  gained  posses- 
sion of  his  maternal  castle.  But  the  tradition 
is  not  accurate.  The  fact  is,  that  he  was  only 
strong  enough  to  alarm  and  drive  in  the  out- 
posts of  the  English  garrison,  then  commanded, 
not  by  Clifford,  as  assumed  in  the  text,  but  by 
Percy.  Neither  was  Clifford  slain  upon  this 
occasion,  though  he  had  several  skirmishes  with 
Bruce.  He  fell  afterwards  in  the  battle  of 
Bannockburn.  Bruce,  after  alarming  the  castle 
of  Turnberry,  and  surprising  some  part  of  the 
garrison,  who  were  quartered  without  the  walls 
of  the  fortress,  retreated  into  the  mountainous 
part  of  Carrick,  and  there  made  himself  so 
strong  that  the  English  were  obliged  to  evacuate 
Turnberry,  and  at  length  the  castle  of  Ayr. 

34.  "  Bring  here"  he  said,  "  the  mazers  four  " 
etc.  These  mazers  were  large  drinking-cups, 
or  goblets. 


CANTO    SIXTH. 

I.  When  Bruce 's  banner  had  victorious  flowed, 
etc.  The  first  important  advantage  gained  by 
Bruce,  after  landing  at  Turnberry,  was  over 
Aymer  de  Valence,  Earl  of  Pembroke,  the  same 
by  whom  he  had  been  defeated  near  Methven. 
They  met,  as  has  been  said,  by  appointment,  at 
Loudonhill,  in  the  west  of  Scotland.  Pembroke 
sustained  a  defeat ;  and  from  that  time  Bruce 
was  at  the  head  of  a  considerable  flying  army. 
Yet  he  was  subsequently  obliged  to  retreat  into 
Aberdeenshire,  and  was  there  assailed  by 
Comyn,  Earl  of  Buchan,  desirous  to  avenge  the 
death  of  his  relative,  the  Red  Comyn,  and  sup- 
ported by  a  body  of  English  troops  under 
Philip  de  Moubray.  Bruce  was  ill  at  the  time 
of  a  scrofulous  disorder,  but  took  horse  to  meet 
his  enemies,  although  obliged  to  be  supported 
on  either  side.  He  was  victorious,  and  it  is 
said  that  the  agitation  of  his  spirits  restored  his 
health. 

I.  When  English  blood  oft  deluged  Douglas- 
dale.  The  "good  Lord  James  of  Douglas," 
during  these  commotions,  often  took  from  the 
English  his  own  castle  of  Douglas ;  but  being 
unable  to  garrison  it,  contented  himself  with 
destroying  the  fortifications  and  retiring  into 
the  mountains.  As  a  reward  to  his  patriotism, 
it  is  said  to  have  been  prophesied  that  how 
often  soever  Douglas  Castle  should  be  de- 
stroyed, it  should  always  again  arise  more 
magnificent  from  its  ruins.  Upon  one  of  these 
occasions  he  used  fearful  cruelty,  causing  all 
the  store  of  provisions,  which  the  English  had 
laid  up  in  his  castle,  to  be  heaped  together, 
bursting  the  wine  and  beer  casks  among  the 
wheat  and  flour,  slaughtering  the  cattle  upon 
the  same  spot,  and  upon  the  top  of  the  whole 
cutting  the  throats  of  the  English  prisoners. 


This  pleasantry  of  the  "  good  Lord  James  "  is 
commemorated  under  the  name  of  the  Douglas's 
Larder. 

1.  And  fiery  Edward  routed  stout  Saint  John. 
"  John  de  Saint  John,  with  1 5,000  horsemen,  had 
advanced  to  oppose  the  inroad  of  the  Scots. 
By  a  forced  march  he  endeavored  to  surprise 
them  ;  but  intelligence  of  his  motions  was  time- 
ously  received.  The  courage  of  Edward  Bruce, 
approaching  to  temerity,  frequently  enabled 
him  to  achieve  what  men  of  more  judicious 
valor  would  never  have  attempted.  He  or- 
dered the  infantry,  and  the  meaner  sort  of  his 
army,  to  entrench  themselves  in  strong  narrow 
ground.  He  himself,  with  fifty  horsemen  well 
harnessed,  issued  forth  under  cover  of  a  thick 
mist,  surprised  the  English  on  their  march, 
attacked  and  dispersed  them "  {Dalrymple's. 
A  nnals  of  Scotland ) . 

1.  When  Randolph' 's  war-cry  swelled  the  south- 
ern gale.  Thomas  Randolph,  Bruce's  sister's 
son,  a  renowned  Scottish  chief,  was  in  the 
early  part  of  his  life  not  more  remarkable  for 
consistency  than  Bruce  himself.  He  espoused 
his  uncle's  party  when  Bruce  first  assumed  the 
crown,  and  was  made  prisoner  at  the  fatal  battle 
of  Methven,  in  which  his  relative's  hopes  ap- 
peared to  be  ruined.  Randolph  accordingly 
not  only  submitted  to  the  English,  but  took  an 
active  part  against  Bruce  ;  appeared  in  arms 
against  him  ;  and  in  the  skirmish  where  he  was 
so  closely  pursued  by  the  bloodhound  it  is  said 
his  nephew  took  his  standard  with  his  own  hand. 
But  Randolph  was  afterwards  made  prisoner 
by  Douglas  in  Tweeddale,  and  brought  before 
King  Robert.  Some  harsh  language  was  ex- 
changed between  the  uncle  and  nephew,  and 
the  latter  was  committed  for  a  time  to  close 
custody.  Afterwards,  however,  they  were  recon- 
ciled, and  Randolph  was  created  Earl  of  Moray 
about  131 2.  After  this  period  he  eminently 
distinguished  himself,  first  by  the  surprise  of 
Edinburgh  Castle,  and  afterwards  by  many 
similar  enterprises,  conducted  with  equal  cour- 
age and  ability. 

4.  Stirling's  towers,  etc.  When  a  long  train 
of  success,  actively  improved  by  Robert  Bruce, 
had  made  him  master  of  almost  all  Scotland, 
Stirling  Castle  continued  to  hold  out.  The  care 
of  the  blockade  was  committed  by  the  king  to 
his  brother  Edward,  who  concluded  a  treaty 
with  Sir  Philip  Mowbray,  the  governor,  that  he 
should  surrender  the  fortress,  if  it  were  not 
succored  by  the  King  of  England  before  Saint 
John  the  Baptist's  day.  The  consequence  was, 
of  course,  that  each  kingdom  mustered  its 
strength  for  the  expected  battle ;  and  as  the 
space  agreed  upon  reached  from  Lent  to  Mid- 
summer, full  time  was  allowed  for  that  pur- 
pose. 

4.  And  Cambria,  but  of  late  sttbdued,  etc. 
Edward  the  First,  with  the  usual  policy  of  a 
conqueror,  employed  the  Welsh,  whom  he  had 
subdued,  to  assist  him  in  his  Scottish  wars,  for 
which  their  habits,  as  mountaineers,  particularly 
fitted  them.  But  this  policy  was  not  without 
its  risks.     Previous  to  the  battle  of  Falkirk,  the 


622 


NOTES. 


Welsh  quarrelled  with  the  English  men-at-arms, 
and  after  bloodshed  on  both  parts,  separated 
themselves  from  his  army,  and  the  feud  between 
them,  at  so  dangerous  and  critical  a  juncture, 
was  reconciled  with  difficulty.  Edward  II.  fol- 
lowed his  father's  example  in  this  particular, 
and  with  no  better  success.  They  could  not  be 
brought  to  exert  themselves  in  the  cause  of  their 
conquerors.  But  they  had  an  indifferent  re- 
ward for  their  forbearance.  Without  arms,  and 
clad  only  in  scanty  dresses  of  linen  cloth,  they 
appeared  naked  in  the  eyes  even  of  the  Scottish 
peasantry;  and  after  the  rout  of  Bannockburn 
were  massacred  by  them  in  great  numbers,  as 
they  retired  in  confusion  towards  their  own 
country. 

4.  And  Connoght poured  from  waste  and  wood, 
etc.  There  is  in  the  Fcedera  an  invitation  to 
Eth  O'Connor,  chief  of  the  Irish  of  Connaught, 
setting  forth  that  the  king  was  about  to  move 
against  his  Scottish  rebels,  and  therefore  re- 
questing the  attendance  of  all  the  force  he 
could  muster,  either  commanded  by  himself  in 
person,  or  by  some  nobleman  of  his  race.  These 
auxiliaries  were  to  be  commanded  by  Richard 
de  Burgh,  Earl  of  Ulster. 

13.  The  Monarch  rode  along  the  van.  The 
English  vanguard,  commanded  by  the  Earls  of 
Gloucester  and  Hereford,  came  in  sight  of  the 
Scottish  army  upon  the  evening  of  the  23d  of 
June.  Bruce  was  then  riding  upon  a  little 
palfrey,  in  front  of  his  foremost  line,  putting 
his  host  in  order.  It  was  then  that  the  personal 
encounter  took  place  betwixt  him  and  Sir 
Henry  de  Bohun,  a  gallant  English  knight,  the 
issue  of  which  had  a  great  effect  upon  the  spirits 
of  both  armies.  The  Scottish  leaders  remon- 
strated with  the  king  upon  his  temerity.  He 
only  answered,  "  I  have  broken  my  good  battle- 
axe."  The  English  vanguard  retreated  after 
witnessing  this  single  combat.  Probably  their 
generals  did  not  think  it  advisable  to  hazard 
an  attack  while  its  unfavorable  issue  remained 
upon  their  minds. 

20.  Pipe-clang  and  bugle-sound  were  tossed. 
There  is  an  old  tradition,  that  the  well-known 
Scottish  tune  of  "  Hey,  tutti  taitti,"  was  Bruce's 
march  at  the  battle  of  Bannockburn.  The  late 
Mr.  Ritson,  no  granter  of  propositions,  doubts 
whether  the  Scots  had  any  martial  music,  quotes 

1  it's  account  of  each  soldier  in  the  host 
bearing  a  little  horn,  on  which,  at  the  onset, 
they  would  make  such  a  horrible  noise,  as  if  all 
the  devils  of  hell  had  been  among  them.  He 
observes  that  these  horns  are  the  only  music 
mentioned  by  Barbour,  and  concludes  that  it 
must  remain  a  moot  point  whether  Bruce's 
army  were  cheered  by  the  sound  even  of  a  soli- 
tary bagpipe. 

21.  See  where  yon  barefoot  Abbot  stands,  etc. 
"  Maurice,  Abbot  of  Inchaffray,  placing  himself 
00  an  eminence,  celebrated  mass  in  sight  of  the 

h  army.     I  le  then  passed  along  the  front 

■■■ted,  and  bearing  a  crucifix  in  his  hands, 

and  exhorting  the  Scots,  in  few  and  forcible 

words,   to   combat   for   their   rights  and  their 

liberty.      The    Scots    kneeled    down.     '  They 


yield,' cried  Edward;  *  see,  they  implore  mercy.' 
— '  They  do.'  answered  Ingelram  de  Umfraville, 
'  but  not  ours.  On  that  field  they  will  be  vic- 
torious, or  die'"   (Annals  of  Scotland,  vol.  ii. 

P-  47)- 

22.  Forth,  Marshal,  on  the  peasant  foe  !  The 
English  archers  commenced  the  attack  with 
their  usual  bravery  and  dexterity.  But  against 
a  force,  whose  importance  he  had  learned  by- 
fatal  experience,  Bruce  was  provided.  A  small 
but  select  body  of  cavalry  were  detached  from 
the  right,  under  command  of  Sir  Robert  Keith. 
They  rounded,  as  I  conceive',  the  marsh  called 
Milntown  bog,  and,  keeping  the  firm  ground, 
charged  the  left  flank  and  rear  of  the  English 
archers.  As  the  bowmen  had  no  spears  nor 
long  weapons  fit  to  defend  themselves  against 
horse,  they  were  instantly  thrown  into  dis- 
order, and  spread  through  the  whole  English 
army  a  confusion  from  which  they  never  fairly 
recovered. 

24.  Twelve  Scottish  lives  his  baldric  bore  ! 
Roger  Ascham  quotes  a  similar  Scottish  prov- 
erb, "  whereby  they  give  the  whole  praise  of 
shooting  honestly  to  Englishmen,  saying  thus, 
'  that  every  English  archer  beareth  under  his 
girdle  twenty-four  Scottes.'  Indeed,  Toxophilus 
says  before,  and  truly  of  the  Scottish  nation, 
'  The  Scottes  surely  be  good  men  of  warre  in 
theyre  owne  feates  as  can  be  ;  but  as  for  shoot- 
inge,  they  can  neither  use  it  to  any  profite,  nor 
yet  challenge  it  for  any  praise.'  " 

24.  Down  !  down  !  in  headlong  overthroiv,  etc. 
It  is  generally  alleged  by  historians,  that  the 
English  men-at-arms  fell  into  the  hidden  snare 
which  Bruce  had  prepared  for  them.  Barbour 
does  not  mention  the  circumstance.  According 
to  his  account,  Randolph,  seeing  the  slaughter 
made  by  the  cavalry  on  the  right  wing  among 
the  archers,  advanced  courageously  against  the 
main  body  of  the  English,  and  entered  into 
close  combat  with  them.  Douglas  and  Stuart, 
who  commanded  the  Scottish  centre,  led  their  di- 
vision also  to  the  charge,  and  the  battle  becom- 
ing general  along  the  whole  line,  was  obstinately 
maintained  on  both  sides  for  a  long  space  of 
time;  the  Scottish  archers  doing  great  execu- 
tion among  the  English  men-at-arms,  after  the 
bowmen  of  England  were  dispersed. 

24.  And  steeds  that  shriek  in  agony.  I  have 
been  told  that  this  line  requires  an  explanatory 
note ;  and,  indeed,  those  who  witness  the  silent 
patience  with  which  horses  submit  to  the  most 
cruel  usage,  may  be  permitted  to  doubt  that 
in  moments  of  sudden  and  intolerable  anguish, 
they  utter  a  most  melancholy  cry.  Lord  Ers- 
kine,  in  a  speech  made  in  the  House  of  Lords, 
upon  a  bill  for  enforcing  humanity  towards  ani- 
mals, noticed  this  remarkable  fact,  in  language 
which  I  will  not  mutilate  by  attempting  to  re- 
peat it.  It  was  my  fortune,  upon  one  occasion, 
to  hear  a  horse,  in  a  moment  of  agony,  utter  a 
thrilling  scream,  which  I  still  consider  the  most 
melancholy  sound  I  ever  heard. 

28.  Lord  of  the  Isles,  my  trust  in  thee,  etc. 
When  the  engagement  between  the  main  bodies 
had  lasted  some  time,  Bruce  made  a  decisive 


THE  FIELD   OF   WATERLOO. 


623 


movement  by  bringing  up  the  Scottish  reserve. 
It  is  traditionally  said  that  at  this  crisis  he  ad- 
dressed the  Lord  of  the  Isles  in  a  phrase  used 
as  a  motto  by  some  of  his  descendants,  "  My 
trust  is  constant  in  thee." 

30.  To  arms  they  flew,  — axe,  club,  or  spear, 
etc.  The  followers  of  the  Scottish  camp  ob- 
served, from  the  Gillies'  Hill  in  the  rear,  the 
impression  produced  upon  the  English  army  by 
the  bringing  up  of  the  Scottish  reserve,  and, 
prompted  by  the  enthusiasm  of  the  moment,  or 
the  desire  of  plunder,  assumed,  in  a  tumultuary 
manner,  such  arms  as  they  found  nearest,  fast- 
ened sheets  to  tent-poles  and  lances,  and  showed 
themselves  like  a  new  army  advancing  to  battle. 


The  unexpected  apparition  of  what  seemed  a 
new  army  completed  the  confusion  which  al 
ready  prevailed  among  the  English,  who  fled  in 
every  direction,  and  were  pursued  with  immense 
slaughter.  The  brook  of  Bannock,  according 
to  Barbour,  was  so  choked  with  the  bodies  of 
men  and  horses  that  it  might  have  been  passed 
dry-shod. 

31.  O,  give  their  hapless  prince  his  due  !  Ed- 
ward II.,  according  to  the  best  authorities, 
showed,  in  the  fatal  field  of  Bannockburn,  per- 
sonal gallantry  not  unworthy  of  his  great  sire 
and  greater  son.  He  remained  on  the  field  till 
forced  away  by  the  Earl  of  Pembroke,  when  all 
was  lost. 


ODfje  JFtelo  of  MMetloo. 


2.  Plies  the  hooked  staff  and  shortened  scythe. 
The  reaper  in  Flanders  carries  in  his  left  hand 
a  stick  with  an  iron  hook,  with  which  he  col- 
lects as  much  grain  as  he  can  cut  at  one  sweep 
with  «.  short  scythe,  which  he  holds  in  his  right 
hand.  They  carry  on  this  double  process  with 
great  spirit  and  dexterity. 

9.  Pale  Brussels !  then  what  thoughts  were 
thine.  It  was  affirmed  by  the  prisoners  of  war 
that  Bonaparte  had  promised  his  army,  in  case 
of  victory,  twenty-four  hours'  plunder  of  the 
city  of  Brussels. 

10.  u  On  !  On  !  "  was  still  his  stern  exclaim. 
The  characteristic  obstinacy  of  Napoleon  was 
never  more  fully  displayed  than  in  what  we  may 
be  permitted  to  hope  will  prove  the  last  of  his 
fields.  He  would  listen  to  no  advice  and  allow 
of  no  obstacles.  An  eyewitness  has  given  the 
following  account  of  his  demeanor  towards 
the  end  of  the  action  :  — 

"  It  was  near  seven  o'clock ;  Bonaparte,  who 
till  then  had  remained  upon  the  ridge  of  the 
hill  whence  he  could  best  behold  what  passed, 
contemplated  with  a  stern  countenance  the 
scene  of  this  horrible  slaughter.  The  more 
that  obstacles  seemed  to  multiply,  the  more  his 
obstinacy  seemed  to  increase.  He  became  in- 
dignant at  these  unforeseen  difficulties ;  and, 
far  from  fearing  to  push  to  extremities  an  army 
whose  confidence  in  him  was  boundless,  he 
ceased  not  to  pour  down  fresh  troops,  and  to 
give  orders  to  march  forward  —  to  charge  with 
the  bayonet  —  to  carry  by  storm.  He  was  re- 
peatedly informed,  from  different  points,  that 
the  day  went  against  him,  and  that  the  troops 
seemed  to  be  disordered ;  to  which  he  only 
replied,  '  En-avant !  En-avant! '  " 

10.  The  fate  their  leader  shunned  to  share.  It 
has  been  reported  that  Bonaparte  charged  at 
the  head  of  his  guards,  at  the  last  period  of  this 
dreadful  conflict  This,  however,  is  not  accu- 
rate. He  came  down,  indeed,  to  a  hollow  part 
of  the  high-road   leading  to  Charleroi,  within 


less  than  a  quarter  of  a  mile  of  the  farm  of  La 
Haye  Sainte,  one  of  the  points  most  fiercely 
disputed.  Here  he  harangued  the  guards,  and 
informed  them  that  his  preceding  operations 
had  destroyed  the  British  infantry  and  cav- 
alry, and  that  they  had  only  to  support  the  fire 
of  the  artillery,  which  they  were  to  attack  with 
the  bayonet.  This  exhortation  was  received 
with  shouts  of  Vive  F  Empereur,  which  were 
heard  over  all  our  line,  and  led  to  an  idea  that 
Napoleon  was  charging  in  person.  But  the 
guards  were  led  on  by  Ney ;  nor  did  Bonaparte 
approach  nearer  the  scene  of  action  than  the 
spot  already  mentioned,  which  the  rising  banks 
on  each  side  rendered  secure  from  all  such  balls 
as  did  not  come  in  a  straight  line. 

10.  England  shall  tell  the  fight!  In  riding 
up  to  a  regiment  which  was  hard  pressed,  the 
duke  called  to  the  men,  "  Soldiers,  we  must 
never  be  beat,  —  what  will  they  say  in  Eng- 
land ? "  It  is  needless  to  say  how  this  appeal 
was  answered. 

12.  As  plies  the  smith  his  clanging  trade.  A 
private  soldier  of  the  95th  regiment  compared 
the  sound  which  took  place  immediately  upon 
the  British  cavalry  mingling  with  those  of  the 
enemy,  to  "  a  thousand  tinkers  at  work  mending 
pots  and  kettles" 

21.  Period  of  honor,  etc.  Sir  Thomas  Pictou, 
Sir  William  Ponsonby,  and  Sir  William  de 
Lancey  were  among  the  lost.  The  last-named 
was  married  in  the  preceding  April.  Colonel 
Miller,  when  mortally  wounded,  desired  to  see 
the  colors  of  the  regiment  once  more  ere  he 
died.  They  were  waved  over  his  head,  and 
the  expiring  officer  declared  himself  satisfied. 
Colonel  Cameron,  of  Fassiefern,  so  often  dis- 
tinguished in  Lord  Wellington's  despatches 
from  Spain,  fell  in  the  action  at  Quatre  Bras 
(16th  June,  181 5),  while  leading  the  92d  or  Gor- 
don Highlanders,  to  charge  a  body  of  cavalry 
supported  by  infantry.  Colonel  Alexander 
Gordon  fell  by  the  side  of  his  chief. 


624 


NOTES. 


J&arolO  tfce  dauntless* 


This  poem  was  published  in  January,  1817. 
See  Scott's  reference  to  it  in  the  1830  Introduc- 
tion to  The  Lord  of  the  Isles.  Unlike  the  other 
long  poems,  it  has  almost  no  notes. 


CANTO  THIRD. 


1.  My  Surtees'  happier  lot. 
of  Mainsforth,   Esq.,   F.S.A. 


Robert  Surtees 
author   of    The 


History  and  Antiquities  of  the  County  Palatine 
of  Durham.     3  vols,  folio,  1816-20-23. 


CANTO   FOURTH. 

I.  Bel's  false  priest.  See,  in  the  Apocryphal 
Books,  The  History  of  Bel  and  the  Dragon. 

1.  Matthew  and  Morton,  etc.  Bishops  of  Dur- 
ham, as  Barrington  also  was. 


33allaUs  ftom  tf)e  ©erman,  etc. 


BStlltam  arrtJ  ^elen. 

Of  this  translation,  written  in  1 795,  and  printed 
in  1 796,  Scott  says  :  — 

"  The  following  Translation  was  written  long 
before  the  Author  saw  any  other,  and  origi- 
nated in  the  following  circumstances  :  A  lady 
of  high  rank  in  the  literary  world  read  this  ro- 
mantic tale,  as  translated  by  Mr.  Taylor,  in  the 
house  of  the  celebrated  Professor  Dugald  Stew- 
art of  Edinburgh.  The  Author  was  not  pres- 
ent, nor  indeed  in  Edinburgh  at  the  time ;  but 
a  gentleman  who  had  the  pleasure  of  hearing 
the  ballad,  afterwards  told  him  the  story,  and 
repeated  the  remarkable  chorus  — 

'  Tramp  !  tramp  !  across  the  land  they  speede, 
Splash  !  splash !  across  the  sea ; 
Hurrah!  The  dead  can  ride  apace  ! 
Dost  fear  to  ride  with  me  ? ' 

"  In  attempting  a  translation,  then  intended 
only  to  circulate  among  friends,  the  present 
Author  did  not  hesitate  to  make  use  of  this 
impressive  stanza ;  for  which  freedom  he  has 
since  obtained  the  forgiveness  of  the  ingenious 
gentleman  to  whom  it  properly  belongs." 


Z\)t  IWa  huntsman. 

This  was  published  with  William  and  Helen 
in  1796,  being  then  entitled  The  Chace.  Scott 
says  of  it :  — 

44  This  is  a  translation,  or  rather  an  imitation, 
of  the  Wilde  Jager  of  the  German  poet  Burger. 
The  tradition  upon  which  it  is  founded  bears, 
that  formerly  a  Wildgrave,  or  keeper  of  a  royal 
named  Faulkenburg,  was  so  much  ad- 
dicted to  the  pleasures  of  the  chase,  and  other- 
>  extremely  profligate  and  cruel,  that  he 
not  only  followed  this  unhallowed  amusement 
on  the  Sabbath,  and  other  days  consecrated  to 
religious  duty,  but  accompanied  it  with  the 
most  unheard-of  oppression  •  upon  the  poor 
peasants,  who  were  under  his  vassalage.  When 
1  >nd  Nimrod  died*  the  people  adopted 


a  superstition,  founded  probably  on  the  many 
various  uncouth  sounds  heard  in  the  depth  of  a 
German  forest,  during  the  silence  of  the  night. 
They  conceived  they  still  heard  the  cry  of  the 
Wildgrave's  hounds  ;  and  the  well-known  cheer 
of  the  deceased  hunter,  the  sounds  of  his  horses' 
feet,  and  the  rustling  of  the  branches  before 
the  game,  the  pack,  and  the  sportsmen,  ar^  also 
distinctly  discriminated :  but  the  phantoms  are 
rarely,  if  ever,  visible.  Once,  as  a  benighted 
Chasseur  heard  this  infernal  chase  pass  by  him, 
at  the  sound  of  the  halloo,  with  which  the 
Spectre  Huntsman  cheered  his  hounds,  he 
could  not  refrain  from  crying,  '  Gluck  zu  Fal- 
ke7iburgh  /'  (Good  sport  to  ye,  Falkenburgh  !) 
4  Dost  thou  wish  me  good  sport  ?  '  answered  a 
hoarse  voice ;  '  thou  shalt  share  the  game ; ' 
and  there  was  thrown  at  him  what  seemed  to 
be  a  huge  piece  of  foul  carrion.  The  daring 
Chasseur  lost  two  of  his  best  horses  soon  after, 
and  never  perfectly  recovered  the  personal  ef- 
fects of  this  ghostly  greeting.  This  tale,  though 
told  with  some  variations,  is  universally  believed 
all  over  Germany. 

44  The  French  had  a  similar  tradition  con- 
cerning an  aerial  hunter  who  infested  the  for- 
est of  Fontainebleau.  He  was  sometimes 
visible;  when  he  appeared  as  a  huntsman, 
surrounded  with  dogs,  a  tall  grisly  figure. 
Some  account  of  him  may  be  found  in  Sully's 
Memoirs,  who  says  he  was  called  Le  Grand 
Veneur.  At  one  time  he  chose  to  hunt  so  near 
the  palace,  that  the  attendants,  and,  if  I  mistake 
not,  Sully  himself,  came  out  into  the  court,  sup- 
posing it  was  the  sound  of  the  king  returning 
from  the  chase.  This  phantom  is  elsewhere 
called  Saint  Hubert. 

44  The  superstition  seems  to  have  been  very 
general, ,  as  appears  from  the  following  fine 
poetical  description  of  this  phantom  chase,  as 
it  was  heard  in  the  wilds  of  Ross-shire  :  — 

4  Ere  since  of  old,  the  haughty  thafles  of  Ross  — 
So  to  the  simple  swain  tradition  tells  — 
Were  wont  with  clans,  and  ready  vassals  thronged, 
To  wake  the  bounding  stag,  or  guilty  wolf, 
There  oft  is  heard,  at  midnight,  or  at  noon, 
Beginning  faint,  but  rising  still  more  loud, 


BALLADS  FROM   THE   GERMAN,   ETC. 


625 


And  nearer,  voice  of  hunters,  and  of  hounds, 

And  horns,  hoarse  winded,  blowing  far  and  keen  :  — 

Forthwith  the  hubbub  multiplies ;  the  gale 

Labors  with  wilder  shrieks,  and  rifer  din 

Of  hot  pursuit ;  the  broken  cry  of  deer 

Mangled  by  throttling  dogs ;  the  shouts  of  men, 

And  hoofs,  thick  beating  on  the  hollow  hill. 

Sudden  the  grazing  heifer  in  the  vale 

Starts  at  the  noise,  and  both  the  herdsman's  ears 

Tingle  with  inward  dread.     Aghast,  he  eyes 

The  mountain's  height,  and  all  the  ridges  round, 

Yet  not  one  trace  of  living  wight  discerns, 

Nor  knows,  o'erawed,  and  trembling  as  he  stands, 

To  what,  or  whom,  he  owes  his  idle  fear, 

To  ghost,  to  witch,  to  fairy,  or  to  fiend  ; 

But  wonders,  and  no  end  of  wondering  finds.' 

A  Ibania  —  reprinted  in  Scottish  Descriptive  Poems 
pp.  167,  168. 
"  A  posthumous  miracle  of  Father  Lesley,  a 
Scottish  capuchin,  related  to  his  being  buried 
on  a  hill  haunted  by  these  unearthly  cries  of 
hounds  and  huntsmen.  After  his  sainted  relics 
had  been  deposited  there,  the  noise  was  never 
heard  more.  The  reader  will  find  this,  and 
other  miracles,  recorded  in  the  life  of  Father 
Bonaventura,  which  is  written  in  the  choicest 
Italian." 


®he  jFtte4£thtg. 

This  ballad  was  written  at  the  request  of 
Mr.  Lewis,  to  be  inserted  in  his  Tales  of  Won- 
der (published  in  1801).  It  is  the  third  in  a 
series  of  four  ballads  on  the  subject  of  Ele- 
mentary Spirits.  The  story  is,  however,  partly 
historical;  for  it  is  recorded  that  during  the 
struggles  of  the  Latin  kingdom  of  Jerusalem, 
a  Knight-Templar,  called  Saint  Alban,  deserted 
to  the  Saracens,  and  defeated  the  Christians  in 
many  combats,  till  he  was  finally  routed  and 
slain,  in  a  conflict  with  King  Baldwin,  under 
the  walls  of  Jerusalem. 


JFwUericft  anU  &lta. 

This  tale  is  imitated,  rather  than  translated, 
from  a  fragment  introduced  in  Goethe's  Clau- 
dina  von  Villa  Bella,  where  it  is  sung  by  a  mem- 
ber of  a  gang  of  banditti,  to  engage  the  attention 
of  the  family,  while  his  companions  break  into 
the  castle.  It  owes  any  little  merit  it  may  pos- 
sess to  my  friend  Mr.  Lewis,  to  whom  it  was 
sent  in  an  extremely  rude  state  ;  and  who,  after 
some  material  improvements,  published  it  in 
his  Tales  of  Wonder. 


€ty  Battle  of  Sempacij. 

Of  this  poem,  written  in  1818,  Scott  says :  — 
"These  verses  are  a  literal  translation  of  an 
ancient  Swiss  ballad  upon  the  battle  of  Sem- 
pach,  fought  9th  July,  1386,  being  the  victory 
by  which  the  Swiss  cantons  established  their 
independence  ;  the  author,  Albert  Tchudi,  de- 
nominated the  Souter,  from  his  profession  of  a 
shoemaker.     He  was  a  citizen  of  Lucerne,  es- 


teemed highly  among  his  countrymen,  both  for 
his  powers  as  a  Meister singer,  or  minstrel,  and 
his  courage  as  a  soldier  ;  so  that  he  might  share 
the  praise  conferred  by  Collins  on  iEschylus, 
that  — 

*  Not  alone  he  nursed  the  poet's  flame, 
But  reached  from  Virtue's  hand  the  patriot  steel.' 

"  The  circumstance  of  their  being  written  by  a 
poet  returning  from  the  well-fought  field  he  de- 
scribes, and  in  which  his  country's  fortune  was 
secured,  may  confer  on  Tchudi's  verses  an  in- 
terest which  they  are  not  entitled  to  claim  from 
their  poetical  merit.  But  ballad  poetry,  the 
more  literally  it  is  translated,  the  more  it  loses 
its  simplicity,  without  acquiring  either  grace  or 
strength  ;  and,  therefore,  some  of  the  faults  of 
the  verses  must  be  imputed  to  the  translator's 
feeling  it  a  duty  to  keep  as  closely  as  possible 
to  his  original.  The  various  puns,  rude  at- 
tempts at  pleasantry,  and  disproportioned  epi- 
sodes, must  be  set  down  to  Tchudi's  account, 
or  to  the  taste  of  his  age. 

"  The  military  antiquary  will  derive  some 
amusement  from  the  minute  particulars  which 
the  martial  poet  has  recorded.  The  mode  in 
which  the  Austrian  men-at-arms  received  the 
charge  of  the  Swiss  was  by  forming  a  phalanx, 
which  they  defended  with  their  long  lances. 
The  gallant  Winkelreid,  who  sacrificed  his  own 
life  by  rushing-  among  the  spears,  clasping  in 
his  arms  as  many  as  he  could  grasp,  and  thus 
opening  a  gap  in  those  iron  battalions,  is  cele- 
brated in  Swiss  history.  When  fairly  mingled 
together,  the  unwieldy  length  of  their  weapons, 
and  cumbrous  weight  of  their  defensive  armor, 
rendered  the  Austrian  men-at-arms  a  very  un- 
equal match  for  the  light-armed  mountaineers. 
The  victories  obtained  by  the  Swiss  over  the 
German  chivalry,  hitherto  deemed  as  formi- 
dable on  foot  as  on  horseback,  led  to  important 
changes  in  the  art  of  war.  The  poet  describes 
the  Austrian  knights  and  squires  as  cutting  the 
peaks  from  their  boots  ere  they  could  act  upon 
foot,  in  allusion  to  an  inconvenient  piece  of 
foppery,  often  mentioned  in  the  Middle  Ages. 
Leopold  III.,  Archduke  of  Austria,  called  'the 
handsome  man-at-arms,'  was  slain  in  the  battle 
of  Sempach,  with  the  flower  of  his  chivalry." 


Wbt  Noble  IHormger. 

The  translation  of  The  Noble  Moringer  ap- 
peared originally  in  the  Edinburgh  Annual 
Register  for  1816  (published  in  1819).  It  was 
composed  during  Sir  Walter  Scott's  severe  and 
alarming  illness  of  April,  1819.    He  says  of  it : — 

"  The  original  of  these  verses  occurs  in  a 
collection  of  German  popular  songs,  entitled 
Sammlung  Deutschen  Volkslieder,  Berlin,  1807, 
published  by  Messrs.  Busching  and  Von  der 
Hagen,  both,  and  more  especially  the  last, 
distinguished  for  their  acquaintance  with  the 
ancient  popular  poetry  and  legendary  history 
of  Germany. 


40 


626 


NOTES. 


"In  the  German  Editor's  notice  of  the  ballad, 
it  is  stated  to  have  been  extracted  from  a  manu- 
script Chronicle  of  Nicolaus  Thomann,  chaplain 
to  Saint  Leonard  in  Weisenhorn,  which  bears 
the  date  1533;  and  the  song  is  stated  by  the 
author  to  have  been  generally  sung  in  the 
neighborhood  at  that  early  period.  Thomann, 
as  quoted  bv  the  German  Editor,  seems  faith- 
fully to  have  believed  the  event  he  narrates. 
He  quotes  tombstones  and  obituaries  to  prove 
the  existence  of  the  personages  of  the  ballad, 
and  discovers  that  there  actually  died,  on  the 
nth  May,  1349,  a  Lady  Von  Neuffen,  Countess 
of  Marstetten,  who  was,  by  birth,  of  the  house 
of  Moringer.  This  lady  he  supposes  to  have 
been  Moringer's  daughter,  mentioned  in  the 
ballad.     He  quotes  the  same  authority  for  the 


death  of  Berckhold  Von  Neuffen,  in  the  same 
year.  The  editors,  on  the  whole,  seem  to  em- 
brace the  opinion  of  Professor  Smith  of  Ulm, 
who,  from  the  language  of  the  ballad,  ascribes 
its  date  to  the  fifteenth  century.  # 

"  The  legend  itself  turns  on  an  incident  not  pe- 
culiar to  Germany,  and  which,  perhaps,  was  not 
unlikely  to  happen  in  more  instances  than  one, 
when  crusaders  abode  long  in  the  Holy  Land, 
and  their  disconsolate  dames  received  no  tidings 
of  their  fate.  A  story,  very  similar  in  circum- 
stances, but  without  the  miraculous  machinery  of 
Saint  Thomas,  is  told  of  one  of  the  ancient  Lords 
of  Haigh-hall  in  Lancashire,  the  patrimonial 
inheritance  of  the  lateCountessof  Balcarras;  and 
the  particulars  are  represented  on  stained  glass 
upon  a  window  in  that  ancient  manor-house." 


35allaOs* 


(glcnfinlas. 

This  ballad  first  appeared  in  Lewis's  Tales  of 
Wonder  (1801). 

The  simple  tradition  upon  which  it  is  founded 
runs  thus:  While  two  Highland  hunters  were 
passing  the  night  in  a  solitary  bothy  (a  hut,  built 
for  the  purpose  of  hunting),  and  making  merry 
over  their  venison  and  whiskey,  one  of  them 
expressed  a  wish  that  they  had  pretty  lasses  to 
complete  their  party.  The  words  were  scarcely 
uttered,  when  two  beautiful  young  women, 
habited  in  green,  entered  the  hut,  dancing  and 
singing.  One  of  the  hunters  was  seduced  by 
the  siren  who  attached  herself  particularly  to 
him,  to  leave  the  hut ;  the  other  remained,  and, 
suspicious  of  the  fair  seducers,  continued  to 
play  upon  a  trump,  or  Jew's  harp,  some  strain 
consecrated  to  the  Virgin  Mary.  Day  at  length 
came,  and  the  temptress  vanished.  Searching 
in  the  forest,  he  found  the  bones  of  his  unfortu- 
nate friend,  who  had  been  torn  to  pieces  and 
devoured  by  the  fiend  into  whose  toils  he  had 
fallen.  The  place  was  from  thence  called  the 
Glen  of  the  Green  Women. 

Glenfinlas  is  a  tract  of  forest-ground,  lying 
in  the  Highlands  of  Perthshire,  not  far  from 
Callender  in  Menteith.  It  was  formerly  a  royal 
forest,  and  now  belongs  to  the  Earl  of  Moray. 
>untry,  as  well  as  the  adjacent  district 
ot  P.alquidder,  was,  in  times  of  yore,  chiefly 
inhabited  by  the  Macgregors.  To  the  west  of 
Glenfinlas  lies  Loch  Katrine,  and 
its  romantic  avenue,  called  the  Troshachs. 
Benledi,  Benmore,  and  Benvoirlich  are  moun- 
tains in  the  same  district,  and  at  no  great  dis- 
tance from  Glenfinlas.  The  river  Teith  passes 
Callender  and  the  castle  of  Uoune,  and  joins 
the  Forth  near  Stirling.  The  Pass  of  Lenny  is 
immediately  above  Callender,  and  is  the  prin- 
cipal access  to  the  Highlands,  from  that  town. 
Glcnartm  y  is  a  forest,  near  Benvoirlich.  The 
whole  forms  a  sublime  tract  of  Alpine  scenery. 


How  blazed  Lord  Ronald's  beltane-tree.  The 
fires  lighted  by  the  Highlanders,  on  the  first  of 
May,  in  compliance  with  a  custom  derived  from 
the  Pagan  times,  are  termed  The  Beltane-tree. 
It  is  a  festival  celebrated  with  various  super- 
stitious rites,  both  in  the  north  of  Scotland  and 
in  Wales. 

The  seer's  prophetic  spirit  found.  I  can  only 
describe  the  second  sight,  by  adopting  Dr.  John- 
son's definition,  who  calls  it  "  an  impression, 
either  by  the  mind  upon  the  eye,  or  by  the  eye 
upon  the  mind,  by  which  things  distant  and 
future  are  perceived  and  seen  as  if  they  were 
present."  To  which  I  would  only  add,  that  the 
spectral  appearances,  thus  presented,  usually 
presage  misfortune ;  that  the  faculty  is  painful 
to  those  who  suppose  they  possess  it ;  and  that 
they  usually  acquire  it  while  themselves  under 
the  pressure  of  melancholy. 

Will  good  Saint  Oran's  rule  prevail '?  Saint 
Oran  was  a  friend  and  follower  of  Saint  Co- 
lumba,  and  was  buried  at  Icolmkill.  His  pre- 
tensions to  be  a  saint  were  rather  dubious. 
According  to  the  legend,  he  consented  to  be 
buried  alive,  in  order  to  propitiate  certain 
demons  of  the  soil,  who  obstructed  the  at- 
tempts of  Columba  to  build  a  chapel.  Columba 
caused  the  body  of  his  friend  to  be  dug  up,  after 
three  days  had  elapsed ;  when  Oran,  to  the 
horror  and  scandal  of  the  assistants,  declared 
that  there  was  neither  a  God,  a  judgment,  nor 
a  future  state  !  He  had  no  time  to  make 
further  discoveries,  for  Columba  caused  the 
earth  once  more  to  be  shovelled  over  him  with 
the  utmost  despatch.  The  chapel,  however, 
and  the  cemetery,  was  called  Relig  Ourdn ; 
and,  in  memory  of  his  rigid  celibacy,  no  female 
was  permitted  to  pay  her  devotions  or  be 
buried  in  that  place.  This  is  the  rule  alluded 
to  in  the  poem. 

And  thrice  Saint  Fillan's  pozuerful  prayer. 
Saint  Fillan  has  given  his  name  to  many  chap- 
els, holy  fountains,  etc.,  in  Scotland.     He  was, 


BALLADS. 


627 


according  to  Camerarius,  an  Abbot  of  Pitten- 
weem,  in  Fife  ;  from  which  situation  he  retired, 
and  died  a  hermit  in  the  wilds  of  Glenurchy, 
a.  D.  649.  While  engaged  in  transcribing  the 
Scriptures,  his  left  hand  was  observed  to  send 
forth  such  a  splendor  as  to  afford  light  to  that 
with  which  he  wrote,  —  a  miracle  which  saved 
many  candles  to  the  convent,  as  Saint  Fillan 
used  to  spend  whole  nights  in  that  exercise. 
The  9th  of  January  was  dedicated  to  this  saint, 
who  gave  his  name  to  Kilfillan,  in  Renfrew,  and 
St.  Phillans,  or  Forgend,  in  Fife. 


€\)t  &at  of  Saint  Sohn. 

SMAYLHOLMEor  Smallholm  Tower,  the  scene 
of  the  following  ballad,  is  situated  on  the  north- 
ern boundary  of  Roxburghshire,  among  a  clus- 
ter of  wild  rocks,  called  Sandiknow-Crags,  the 
property  of  Hugh  Scott,  Esq.,  of  Harden. 
The  tower  is  a  high  square  building,  sur- 
rounded by  an  outer  wall,  now  ruinous.  The 
circuit  of  the  outer  court,  being  defended  on 
three  sides,  by  a  precipice  and  morass,  is  acces- 
sible only  from  the  west,  by  a  steep  and  rocky 
path.  The  apartments,  as  is  usual  in  a  Border 
keep,  or  fortress,  are  placed  one  above  another, 
and  communicate  by  a  narrow  stair;  on  the 
roof  are  two  bartizans,  or  platforms,  for  defence 
or  pleasure.  The  inner  door  of  the  tower  is 
wood,  the  outer  an  iron  gate  ;  the  distance  be- 
tween them  being  nine  feet,  the  thickness, 
namely,  of  the  wall.  From  the  elevated  situa- 
tion of  Smaylholme  Tower,  it  is  seen  many 
miles  in  every  direction.  Among  the  crags 
by  which  it  is  surrounded,  one,  more  eminent, 
is  called  the  Watchfold,  and  is  said  to  have 
been  the  station  of  a  beacon,  in  the  times  of 
war  with  England.  Without  the  tower-court 
is  a  ruined  chapel.  Brotherstone  is  a  heath, 
in  the  neighborhood  of  Smaylholme  Tower. 

This  ballad  was  first  printed  in  Mr.  Lewis's 
Tales  of  Wonder.  The  catastrophe  of  the  tale 
is  founded  upon  a  well-known  Irish  tradition.1 
This  ancient  fortress  and  its  vicinity  formed 
the  scene  of  the  Editor's  infancy,  and  seemed 
to  claim  from  him  this  attempt  to  celebrate 
them  in  a  Border  tale. 

The  black  rood-stone.  The  black  rood  of  Mel- 
rose was  a  crucifix  of  black  marble,  and  of 
superior  sanctity. 

The  Eildon-tree.  Eildon  is  a  high  hill,  ter- 
minating in  three  conical  summits,  immediately 
above  the  town  of  Melrose,  where  are  the  ad- 
mired ruins  of  a  magnificent  monastery.  Eildon- 

1  The  following  passage,  in  Dr.  Henry  More's  Appen- 
dix to  the  Antidote  against  Atheism,  relates  to  a  similar 
phenomenon:  "I  confess,  that  the  bodies  of  devils  may 
not  be  only  warm,  but  singeingly  hot,  as  it  was  in  him  that 
took  one  of  Melancthon's  relations  by  the  hand,  and  so 
scorched  her,  that  she  bare  the  mark  of  it  to  her  dying 
day.  But  the  examples  of  cold  are  more  frequent ;  as  in 
that  famous  story  of  Cuntius,  when  he  touched  the  arm 
of  a  certain  woman  of  Pentoch,  as  she  lay  in  her  bed,  he 
felt  as  cold  as  ice;  and  so  did  the  spirit's  claw  to  Anne 
Styles."  —  Ed.  1662,  p.  135- 


tree  is  said  to  be  the  spot  where  Thomas  the 
Rhymer  uttered  his  prophecies. 

That  nun  who  ne'er  beholds  the  day.  The 
circumstance  of  the  nun  "who  never  saw 
the  day,"  is  not  entirely  imaginary.  About 
fifty  years  ago,  an  unfortunate  female  wanderer 
took  up  her  residence  in  a  dark  vault,  among 
the  ruins  of  Dryburgh  Abbey,  which,  during 
the  day,  she  never  quitted.  When  night  fell, 
she  issued  from  this  miserable  habitation,  and 
went  to  the  house  of  Mr.  Haliburton  of  New- 
mains,  the  Editor's  great-grandfather,  or  to  that 
of  Mr.  Erskine  of  Sheilfield,  two  gentlemen  of 
the  neighborhood.  From  their  charity  she 
obtained  such  necessaries  as  she  could  be  pre- 
vailed upon  to  accept.  At  twelve,  each  night, 
she  lighted  her  candle,  and  returned  to  her 
vault,  assuring  her  friendly  neighbors  that 
during  her  absence  her  habitation  was  arranged 
by  a  spirit,  to  whom  she  gave  the  uncouth  name 
of  Fatlips  ;  describing  him  as  a  little  man,  wear- 
ing heavy  iron  shoes,  with  which  he  trampled 
the  clay  floor  of  the  vault,  to  dispel  the  damps. 
This  circumstance  caused  her  to  be  regarded, 
by  the  well-informed,  with  compassion,  as  de- 
ranged in  her  understanding ;  and  by  the  vulgar, 
with  some  degree  of  terror.  The  cause  of  her 
adopting  this  extraordinary  mode  of  life  she 
would  never  explain.  It  was,  however,  be- 
lieved to  have  been  occasioned  by  a  vow  that 
during  the  absence  of  a  man  to  whom  she  was 
attached,  she  would  never  look  upon  the  sun. 
Her  lover  never  returned.  He  fell  during  the 
civil  war  of  1745-46,  and  she  nevermore  would 
behold  the  light  of  day. 

The  vault,  or  rather  dungeon,  in  which  this 
unfortunate  woman  lived  and  died,  passes  still 
by  the  name  of  the  supernatural  being  with 
which  its  gloom  was  tenanted  by  her  disturbed 
imagination,  and  few  of  the  neighboring  peasants 
dare  enter  it  by  night. 


(JTaogoto  &astlr. 

The  ruins  of  Cadyow,  or  Cadzow  Castle,  the 
ancient  baronial  residence  of  the  family  of 
Hamilton,  are  situated  upon  the  precipitous 
banks  of  the  river  Evan,  about  two  miles  above 
its  junction  with  the  Clyde.  It  was  dismantled, 
in  the  conclusion  of  the  Civil  Wars,  during  the 
reign  of  the  unfortunate  Mary,  to  whose  cause 
the  house  of  Hamilton  devoted  themselves  with 
a  generous  zeal,  which  occasioned  their  tempo- 
rary obscurity,  and,  very  nearly,  their  total  ruin. 
The  situation  of  the  ruins,  embosomed  in  wood, 
darkened  by  ivy  and  creeping  shrubs,  and  over- 
hanging the  brawling  torrent,  is  romantic  in  the 
highest  degree.  In  the  immediate  vicinity  of 
Cadyow  is  a  grove  of  immense  oaks,  the  re- 
mains of  the  Caledonian  Forest,  which  anciently 
extended  through  the  south  of  Scotland,  from 
the  eastern  to  the  Atlantic  Ocean.  Some  of 
these  trees  measure  twenty-five  feet,  and  up- 
wards, in  circumference  ;  and  the  state  of  decay 
in  which  they  now  appear  shows  that  they  have 


628 


NOTES. 


witnessed  the  rites  of  the  Druids.  The  whole 
scenery  is  included  in  the  magnificent  and  ex- 
tensive park  of  the  Duke  of  Hamilton.  There 
was  long  preserved  in  this  forest  the  breed  of 
the  Scottish  wild  cattle,  until  their  ferocity  oc- 
casioned their  being  extirpated,  about  forty  years 
ago.  Their  appearance  was  beautiful,  being 
milk-white,  with  black  muzzles,  horns,  and 
hoofs.  The  bulls  are  described  by  ancient 
authors  as  having  white  manes ;  but  those  of 
latter  days  had  lost  that  peculiarity,  perhaps 
by  intermixture  with  the  tame  breed. 

In  detailing  the  death  of  the  Regent  Murray, 
which  is  made  the  subject  of  the  following  bal- 
lad, it  would  be  injustice  to  my  reader  to  use 
other  words  than  those  of  Dr.  Robertson,  whose 
account  of  that  memorable  event  forms  a  beau- 
tiful piece  of  historical  painting. 

"  Hamilton  of  Bothwellhaugh  was  the  person 
who  committed  this  barbarous  action.  He  had 
been  condemned  to  death  soon  after  the  battle 
of  Langside,  as  we  have  already  related,  and 
owed  his  life  to  the  Regent's  clemency.  But 
part  of  his  estate  had  been  bestowed  upon  one 
of  the  Regent's  favorites,1  who  seized  his  house 
and  turned  out  his  wife,  naked,  in  a  cold  night, 
into  the  open  fields,  where,  before  next  morn- 
ing, she  became  furiously  mad.  This  injury 
made  a  deeper  impression  on  him  than  the 
benefit  he  had  received,  and  from  that  moment 
he  vowed  to  be  revenged  of  the  Regent.  Party 
rage  strengthened  and  inflamed  his  private  re- 
sentment. His  kinsmen,  the  Hamiltons,  ap- 
plauded the  enterprise.  The  maxims  of  that 
age  justified  the  most  desperate  course  he  could 
take  to  obtain  vengeance.  He  followed  the 
Regent  for  some  time,  and  watched  for  an  op- 
portunity to  strike  the  blow.  He  resolved  at 
last  to  wait  till  his  enemy  should  arrive  at  Lin- 
lithgow, through  which  he  was  to  pass  in  his 
way  from  Stirling  to  Edinburgh.  He  took  his 
stand  in  a  wooden  gallery,  which  had  a  window 
towards  the  street :  spread  a  feather-bed  on  the 
floor  to  hinder  the  noise  of  his  feet  from  being 
heard  ;  hung  up  a  black  cloth  behind  him,  that 
his  shadow  might  not  be  observed  from  with- 
out ;  and,  after  all  this  preparation,  calmly  ex- 

the  Regent's  approach,  who  had  lodged, 
during  the  night,  in  a  house  not  far  distant. 
Some  indistinct  information  of  the  danger  which 
threatened  him  had  been  conveyed  to  the  Re- 
gent, and  he  paid  so  much  regard  to  it  that  he 
resolved  to  return  by  the  same  gate  through 
which  he  had  entered,  and  to  fetch  a  compass 
round  the  town.  But  as  the  crowd  about  the 
"id  he  himself  unacquainted 
with  fear,  he  proceeded  directly  along  the  street ; 
and  the  throng  of  people  obliging  him  to  move 

»wly,  gave  the  assassin  time  to  take  so 
true  an  aim,  that  he  shot  him,  with  a  single 
bullet,  through  the  lower  part  of  his  belly,  and 
killed  the  horse  of  a  gentleman  who  rode  on 
hil  Other  tide.  I  lis  followers  instantly  endeav- 
ored to  break  into  the  house  whence  the  blow 

1  This  was  Sir  James  Bellenden,  Lord  Justice-Clerk, 
btmefa]   and  inhuman   rapacity  occasioned   the 
catastrophe  in  the  text. 


had  come ;  but  they  found  the  door  strongly 
barricadoed,  and,  before  it  could  be  forced  open, 
Hamilton  had  mounted  a  fleet  horse  which  stood 
ready  for  him  at  a  back  passage,  and  was  got 
far  beyond  their  reach.  The  Regent  died  the 
same  night  of  his  wound  "  {History  of  Scotland, 
book  v.). 

Bothwellhaugh  rode  straight  to  Hamilton, 
where  he  was  received  in  triumph;  for  the 
ashes  of  the  houses  in  Clydesdale,  which  had 
been  burned  by  Murray's  army,  were  yet  smok- 
ing ;  and  party  prejudice,  the  habits  of  the  age. 
and  the  enormity  of  the  provocation,  seemed  to 
his  kinsmen  to  justify  the  deed.  After  a  short 
abode  at  Hamilton,  this  fierce  and  determined 
man  left  Scotland,  and  served  in  France,  un- 
der the  patronage  of  the  family  of  Guise,  to 
whom  he  was  doubtless  recommended  by  hav- 
ing avenged  the  cause  of  their  niece,  Queen 
Mary,  upon  her  ungrateful  brother.  De  Thou 
has  recorded  that  an  attempt  was  made  to 
engage  him  to  assassinate  Gaspar  de  Coligni, 
the  famous  Admiral  of  France,  and  the  buckler 
j  of  the  Huguenot  cause.  But  the  character  of 
Bothwellhaugh  was  mistaken.  He  was  no 
mercenary  trader  in  blood,  and  rejected  the 
offer  with  contempt  and  indignation.  He  had 
no  authority,  he  said,  from  Scotland  to  commit 
murders  in  France,  he  had  avenged  his  own 
just  quarrel,  but  he  would  neither,  for  price  nor 
prayer,  avenge  that  of  another  man  ( Thuanus, 
cap.  46.). 

The  Regent's  death  happened  23d  January, 
1569.  It  is  applauded  or  stigmatized,  by  con- 
temporary historians,  according  to  their  reli- 
gious or  party  prejudices.  The  triumph  of 
Blackwood  is  unbounded.  He  not  only  extols 
the  pious  feat  of  Bothwellhaugh,  "who,"  he  ob- 
serves, "  satisfied,  with  a  single  ounce  of  lead, 
him  whose  sacrilegious  avarice  had  stripped 
the  metropolitan  church  of  St.  Andrews  of  its 
covering;  '  but  he  ascribes  it  to  immediate  di- 
vine inspiration,  and  the  escape  of  Hamilton  to 
little  less  than  the  miraculous  interference  of 
the  Deity  (/ebb,  vol.  ii.  p.  263).  With  equal  in- 
justice, it  was,  by  others,  made  the  ground  of  a 
general  national  reflection;  for  when  Mather 
urged  Berney  to  assassinate  Burleigh,  and 
quoted  the  examples  of  Poltrot'and  Bothwell- 
haugh, the  other  conspirator  answered,  c'  that 
neyther  Poltrot  nor  Hambleton  did  attempt 
their  enterpryse,  without  some  reason  or  con- 
sideration to  lead  them  to  it ;  as  the  one,  by 
hyre,  and  promise  of  preferment  or  rewarde ; 
the  other,  upon  desperate  mind  of  revenge,  for 
a  lyttle  wrong  done  unto  him,  as  the  report 
goethe,  according  to  the  vyle  trayterous  dys- 
posysyon  of  the  hoole  natyon  of  the  Scottes  " 
(Murdin's  State  Papers,  vol.  i.  p.  197). 

Sound  the  pryse!  The  note  blown  at  the 
death  of  the  game. 

Stem  Claud  replied.  Lord  Claud  Hamilton, 
second  son  of  the  Duke  of  Chatelherault,  and 
commendator  of  the  Abbey  of  Paisley,  acted  a 
distinguished  part  during  the  troubles  of  Queen 
Mary's  reign,  and  remained  unalterably  attached 
to  the  cause  of  that  unfortunate  princess.     He 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


629 


led  the  van  of  her  army  at  the  fatal  battle  of 
Langside,  and  was  one  of  the  commanders  at 
the  Raid  of  Stirling,  which  had  so  nearly  given 
complete  success  to  the  queen's  faction.  He 
was  ancestor  of  the  present  Marquis  of  Aber- 
corn. 

Woodhouselee.  This  barony,  stretching  along 
the  banks  of  the  Esk,  near  Auchendinny,  be- 
longed to  Bothwellhaugh,  in  right  of  his  wife. 
The  ruins  of  the  mansion,  from  whence  she  was 
expelled  in  the  brutal  manner  which  occasioned 
her  death,  are  still  to  be  seen  in  a  hollow  glen 
beside  the  river.  Popular  report  tenants  them 
with  the  restless  ghost  of  the  Lady  Bothwell- 
haugh ;  whom,  however,  it  confounds  with  Lady 
Anne  Bothwell,  whose  Lament  is  so  popular. 
This  spectre  is  so  tenacious  of  her  rights,  that, 
a  part  of  the  stones  of  the  ancient  edifice  having 
been  employed  in  building  or  repairing  the  pres- 
ent Woodhouselee,  she  has  deemed  it  a  part  of 
her  privilege  to  haunt  that  house  also ;  and, 
even  of  very  late  years,  has  excited  considerable 
disturbance  and  terror  among  the  domestics. 
This  is  a  more  remarkable  vindication  of  the 
rights  of  ghosts,  as  the  present-  Woodhouselee  is 
situated  on  the  slope  of  the  Pentland  hills,  dis- 
tant at  least  four  miles  from  her  proper  abode. 
She  always  appears  in  white,  and  with  her  child 
in  her  arms. 

Drives  to  the  leap  his  jaded  steed.  Birrel  in- 
forms us,  that  Bothwellhaugh,  being  closely 
pursued,  "  after  that  spur  and  wand  had  failed 
him,  he  drew  forth  his  dagger,  and  strocke  his 
horse  behind,  whilk  caused  the  horse  to  leap  a 
very  brode  stanke  [/'.  e.  ditch],  by  whilk  means 
he  escapit,  and  gat  away  from  all  the  rest  of 
the  horses  "  (Diary,  p.  18). 

From  the  wild  Border's  humbled  side.  Mur- 
ray's death  took  place  shortly  after  an  expedition 
to  the  Borders. 


With  hackbut  bent.  With  gun  cocked.  The 
carbine,  with  which  the  Regent  was  shot  is 
preserved  at  Hamilton  Palace.  It  is  a  brass 
piece,  of  a  middling  length,  very  small  in  the 
bore,  and,  what  is  rather  extraordinary,  appears 
to  have  been  rifled  or  indented  in  the  barrel. 
It  had  a  matchlock,  for  which  a  modern  firelock 
has  been  injudiciously  substituted. 

Dark  Morton.  He  was  concerned  in  the  mur- 
der of  David  Rizzio,  and  at  least  privy  to  that 
of  Darnley. 

The  wild  Macfarlanes'  plaided  clan.  This 
clan  of  Lennox  Highlanders  were  attached  to 
the  Regent  Murray. 

Glencairn  and  stout  Par khead  were  nigh.  The 
Earl  of  Glencairn  was  a  steady  adherent  of  the 
Regent.  George  Douglas  of  Parkhead  was  a 
natural  brother  of  the  Earl  of  Morton,  whose 
horse  was  killed  by  the  same  ball  by  which 
Murray  fell. 

Haggard  Lindesay^s  iron  eye,  etc.  Lord  Lind- 
say, of  the  Byres,  was  the  most  ferocious  and 
brutal  of  the  Regent's  faction,  and,  as  such,  was 
employed  to  extort  Mary's  signature  to  the  deed 
of  resignation  presented  to  her  in  Lochleven 
Castle.  He  discharged  his  commission  with  the 
most  savage  rigor;  and  it  is  even  said  that 
when  the  weeping  captive,  in  the  act  of  signing, 
averted  her  eyes  from  the  fatal  deed,  he  pinched 
her  arm  with  the  grasp  of  his  iron  glove. 

So  close  the  minions  croivded  nigh.  Not  only 
had  the  Regent  notice  of  the  intended  attempt 
upon  his  life,  but  even  of  the  very  house  from 
which  it  was  threatened.  With  that  infatuation 
at  which  men  wonder,  after  such  events  have 
happened,  he  deemed  it  would  be  a  sufficient 
precaution  to  ride  briskly  past  the  dangerous 
spot.  But  even  this  was  prevented  by  the 
crowd ;  so  that  Bothwellhaugh  had  time  to  take 
a  deliberate  aim. 


iflfecellaneous    poems;* 


E\]i   Baro's  Incantation. 

The  Spectre  with  his  Bloody  Hand.  The  for- 
est of  Glenmore  is  haunted  by  a  spirit  called 
Lhamdearg,  or  Red-hand. 

Largs  and  Loncarty.  Where  the  Norwegian 
invader  of  Scotland  received  two  bloody  defeats. 

Coilgach.     The  Galgacus  of  Tacitus. 


Ehc  Bnmg  Bart. 

The  Welsh  tradition  bears  that  a  Bard,  on  his 
death-bed,  demanded  his  harp,  and  played  the  air 
to  which  these  verses  are  adapted ;  requesting 
that  it  might  be  performed  at  his  funeral. 


Che  Gorman  f&orsc=sfj0f. 

The  Welsh,  inhabiting  a  mountainous  coun- 
try, and  possessing  only  an  inferior  breed  of 
horses,  were  usually  unable  to  encounter  the 
shock  of  the  Anglo-Norman  cavalry.  Occasion- 
ally, however,  they  were  successful  in  repelling 
#the  invaders  ;  and  the  following  verses  are  sup- 
posed to  celebrate  a  defeat  of  Clare,  Earl  of 
Striguil  and  Pembroke,  and  of  Neville,  Baron 
of  Chepstow,  Lords-Marchers  of  Monmouth- 
shire. Rymny  is  a  stream  which  divides  the 
counties  of  Monmouth  and  Glamorgan.  Caer- 
phili,  the  scene  of  the  supposed  battle,  is  a  vale 
upon  its  banks,  dignified  by  the  ruins  of  a  very 
ancient  castle. 


630 


NOTES. 


&he  fflatU  of  Neiopatfj. 

There  is  a  tradition  in  Tweeddale,  that,  when 
Neidpath  Castle,  near  Peebles,  was  inhabited 
by  the  Earls  of  March,  a  mutual  passion  sub- 
sisted between  a  daughter  of  that  noble  family, 
and  a  son  of  the  Laird  of  Tushielaw,  in  Ettrick 
Forest.  As  the  alliance  was  thought  unsuitable 
by  her  parents,  the  young  man  went  abroad. 
During  his  absence  the  lady  fell  into  a  con- 
sumption ;  and  at  length,  as  the  only  means  of 
saving  her  life,  her  father  consented  that  her 
lover  should  be  recalled.  On  the  day  when  he 
was  expected  to  pass  through  Peebles,  on  the 
road  to  Tushielaw,  the  young  lady,  though 
much  exhausted,  caused  herself  to  be  carried 
to  the  balcony  of  a  house  in  Peebles,  belonging 
to  the  family,  that  she  might  see  him  as  he  rode 
past.  Her  anxiety  and  eagerness  gave  such 
force  to  her  organs,  that  she  is  said  to  have 
distinguished  his  horse's  footsteps  at  an  incred- 
ible distance.  But  Tushielaw,  unprepared  for 
the  change  in  her  appearance,  and  not  expecting 
to  see  her  in  that  place,  rode  on  without  recog- 
nizing her,  or  even  slackening  his  pace.  The 
lady  was  unable  to  support  the  shock;  and, 
after  a  short  struggle,  died  in  the  arms  of  her 
attendants.  There  is  an  incident  similar  to 
this  traditional  tale  in  Count  Hamilton's  Fleur 
d  ^Epitic. 


£fje  fHassacre  of  (Slencoe. 

This  event,  which  occurred  early  in  169?,  was 
one  of  the  most  barbarous  that  disgraced  the 
government  of  King  William  III.,  in  Scotland. 
Macdonald,  of  Glencoe,  was  prevented  by  acci- 
dent, rather  than  design,  from  tendering  his 
submission  to  the  king  within  the  specified 
time;  and  orders  were  given  to  proceed  to 
military  execution  against  the  clan.  Nearly 
forty  persons  were  massacred  by  the  troops  ; 
and  several  who  fled  to  the  mountains  perished 
by  famine  and  the  inclemency  of  the  season 
Those  who  escaped  owed  their  lives  to  a  tern 
pestuous  night.  Lieutenant-Colonel  Hamilton 
who  had  received  the  charge  of  the  execution 
was  on  his  march  with  four  hundred  men,  to 
guard  all  the  passes  from  the  valley  of  Glencoe , 
bat  he  was  obliged  to  stop  by  the  severity  of 
the  weather,  which  proved  the  safety  of  the 
unfortunate  clan.  Next  day  he  entered  the 
valley,  laid  the  houses  in  ashes,  and  carried 
away  the  cattle  and  spoil,  which  were  divided 
among  the  officers  and  soldiers. 


*amt  Clouo. 

These  lines  were  written  after  an  evening 
spent  at  Saint  Cloud  with  the  late  Lady  Alvan- 
ley  and  her  daughters,  one  of  whom  was  the 
songstress  alluded  to  in  the  text. 


Eomance  of  ©unots. 

The  original  of  this  little  romance  makes 
part  of  a  manuscript  collection  of  French  Songs, 
probably  compiled  by  some  young  officer,  which 
was  found  on  the  field  of  Waterloo,  so  much 
stained  with  clay  and  with  blood  as  sufficiently 
to  indicate  the  fate  of  its  late  owner.  The  song 
is  popular  in  France,  and  is  rather  a  good  speci- 
men of  the  style  of  composition  to  which  it  be- 
longs.    The  translation  is  strictly  literal. 


pibroch  of  Bonalo  Brju. 

This  is  a  very  ancient  pibroch  belonging  to 
Clan  Macdonald,  and  supposed  to  refer  to  the 
expedition  of  Donald  Balloch,  who,  in  1431, 
launched  from  the  Isles  with  a  considerable 
force,  invaded  Lochaber,  and  at  Inverlochy  de- 
feated and  put  to  flight  the  Earls  of  Mar  and 
Caithness,  though  at  the  head  of  an  army  su- 
perior to  his  own.  The  words  of  the  set,  theme, 
or  melody,  to  which  the  pipe  variations  are  ap- 
plied, run  thus  in  Gaelic  :  — 

Piobaireachd  Dhonuil  Dhuidh,  piobaireachd  Dhonuil ; 
Piobaireachd  Dhonuil  Dhuidh,  piobaireachd  Dhonuil ; 
Piobaireachd  Dhonuil  Dhuidh,  piobaireachd  Dhonuil ; 
Piob  agus  bratach  air  faiche  Inverlochi. 
The  pipe-summons  of  Donald  the  Black, 
The  pipe-summons  of  Donald  the  Black, 
The  war-pipe  and  the  pennon  are  on  the  gathering-place 
at  Inverlochy. 


bora's  U0to. 

In  the  original  Gaelic,*the  Lady  makes  pro- 
testations that  she  will  not  go  with  the  Red 
Earl's  son,  until  the  swan  should  build  in  the 
cliff,  and  the  eagle  in  the  lake,  —  until  one 
mountain  should  change  places  with  another, 
and  so  forth.  It  is  but  fair  to  add  that  there 
is  no  authority  for  supposing  that  she  altered 
her  mind,  —  except  the  vehemence  of  her  pro- 
testation. 


iftacgregor's  fathering. 

These  verses  are  adapted  to  a  very  wild,  yet 
lively  gathering  tune,  used  by  the  Macgregors. 
The  severe  treatment  of  this  clan,  their  out- 
lawry, and  the  proscription  of  their  very  name, 
are  alluded  to  in  the  ballad. 


&rje  Jftorfcs  of  Bangor's  imarcfj. 

Ethelfrid,  or  Olfrid,  King  of  Northumber- 
land, having  besieged  Chester  in  613,  and  Brock- 
mael,  a  British  prince,  advancing  to  relieve  it, 
the  religious  of  the  neighboring  Monastery  of 
Bangor  marched  in  procession,  to  prav  for  the 
success  of  their  countrymen.  But  the  British 
being  totally  defeated,  the  heathen  victor  put 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


631 


the  monks  to  the  sword,  and  destroyed  their 
monastery.  The  tune  to  which  these  verses  are 
adapted  is  called  the  Monks'  March,  and  is 
supposed  to  have  been  played  at  their  ill-omened 
procession. 


Wc\i  ^arch  after  happiness. 

The  hint  of  the  tale  is  taken  from  La  Camiscia 
Magica,  a  novel  of  Giam  Battista  Casti. 


<Dn  a  &himtier=St0rm. 

In  Scott's  Introduction  to  the  Lay,  he  alludes 
to  an  original  effusion  of  these  "  schoolboy 
days,"  prompted  by  a  thunder-storm,  which  he 
says  "  was  much  approved  of,  until  a  malevolent 
critic  sprung  up  in  the  shape  of  an  apothecary's 
blue-buskined  wife,"  etc.  These  lines,  and 
another  short  piece  "  On  the  Setting  Sun,"  were 
lately  found  wrapped  up  in  a  cover,  inscribed 
by  Dr.  Adam,  "  Walter  Scott,  July,  1783." 


IBarkrttnmon's  iLament. 

Mackrimmon,  hereditary  piper  to  the  Laird  of 
Macleod,  is  said  to  have  composed  this  Lament 
when  the  clan  was  about  to  depart  upon  a  dis- 
tant and  dangerous  expedition.  The  minstrel 
was  impressed  with  a  belief,  which  the  event 
verified,  that  he  was  to  be  slain  hi  the  approach- 
ing feud ;  and  hence  the  Gaelic  words,  *  Cha 
till  mi  tuille ;  ged  thillis  Macleod,  cha  till  Mac- 
krimmon," that  is,  "I  shall  never  return;  al- 
though Macleod  returns,  yet  Mackrimmon  shall 
never  return  !  "  The  piece  is  but  too  well  known, 
from  its  being  the  strain  with  which  the  emi- 
grants from  the  West  Highlands  and  Isles  usu- 
ally take  leave  of  their  native  shore. 


3urjemle  Hints  from  FtrgtI. 

Scott's  autobiography  tells  us  that  his  trans-  j 
lations  in  verse  from  Horace  and  Virgil  were  ; 
often  approved  by  Dr.  Adams,  Rector  of  the 
High  School,  Edinburgh.  One  of  these  little 
pieces,  written  in  a  weak  boyish  scrawl,  within 
pencilled  marks  still  visible,  had  been  carefully 
preserved  by  his  mother  ;  it  was  found  folded 
up  in  a  cover,  inscribed  by  the  old  lady  "  My 
Walter's  first  lines,  1782." 


Ehe  (Eras  Brother. 

The  imperfect  state  of  this  ballad,  which  was   j 
written  several  years  ago,  is  not  a  circumstance 


affected  for  the  purpose  of  giving  it  that  pe- 
culiar interest  which  is  often  found  to  arise 
from  ungratified  curiosity.  On  the  contrary,  it 
was  the  Editor's  intention  to  have  completed 
the  tale,  if  he  had  found  himself  able  to  suc- 
ceed to  his  own  satisfaction.  Yielding  to  the 
opinion  of  persons,  whose  judgment,  if  not 
biassed  by  the  partiality  of  friendship,  is  entitled 
to  deference,  he  has  preferred  inserting  these 
verses  as  a  fragment,  to  his  intention  of  entirely 
suppressing  them. 

The  tradition  upon  which  the  tale  is  founded 
regards  a  house  upon  the  barony  of  Gilmerton, 
near  Lasswade,  in  Mid-Lothian.  This  build- 
ing, now  called  Gilmerton  Grange,  was  origi- 
nally named  Burndale,  from  the  following  tragic 
adventure.  The  barony  of  Gilmerton  belonged, 
of  yore,  to  a  gentleman  named  Heron,  who  had 
one  beautiful  daughter.  This  young  lady  was 
seduced  by  the  Abbot  of  Newbattle,  a  richly 
endowed  abbey  upon  the  banks  of  the  South 
Esk,  now  a  seat  of  the  Marquis  of  Lothian. 
Heron  came  to  the  knowledge  of  this  circum- 
stance, and  learned  also  that  the  lovers  carried 
on  their  guilty  intercourse  by  the  connivance 
of  the  lady's  nurse,  who  lived  at  this  house  of 
Gilmerton  Grange,  or  Burndale.  He  formed 
a  resolution  of  bloody  vengeance,  undeterred  by 
the  supposed  sanctity  of  the  clerical  character, 
or  by  the  stronger  claims  of  natural  affection. 
Choosing,  therefore,  a  dark  and  windy  night, 
when  the  objects  of  his  vengeance  were  engaged 
in  a  stolen  interview,  he  set  fire  to  a  stack  of 
dried  thorns  and  other  combustibles,  which  he 
had  caused  to  be  piled  against  the  house,  and 
reduced  to  a  pile  of  glowing  ashes  the  dwelling, 
with  all  its  inmates. 

The  scene  with  which  the  ballad  opens,  was 
suggested  by  the  following  curious  passage,  ex- 
tracted from  the  Life  of  Alexander  Peden,  one 
of  the  wandering  and  persecuted  teachers  of 
the  sect  of  Cameronians,  during  the  reign  of 
Charles  II.  and  his  successor,  James.  This 
person  was  supposed  by  his  followers,  and, 
perhaps,  really  believed  himself,  to  be  possessed 
of  supernatural  gifts ;  for  the  wild  scenes  which 
they  frequented,  and  the  constant  dangers  which 
were  incurred  through  their  proscription,  deep- 
ened upon  their  minds  the  gloom  of  supersti- 
tion, so  general  in  that  age. 

"  About  the  same  time  he  [Peden]  came  to 
Andrew  Normand's  house,  in  the  parish  of 
Alloway,  in  the  shire  of  Ayr,  being  to  preach 
at  night  in  his  barn.  After  he  came  in,  he 
halted  a  little,  leaning  upon  a  chair-back,  with 
his  face  covered;  when  he  lifted  up  his  head 
he  said,  '  They  are  in  this  house  that  I  have 
not  one  word  of  salvation  unto ; '  he  halted  a 
little  again,  saying,  '  This  is  strange,  that  the 
devil  will  not  go  out,  that  we  may  begin  our 
work ! '  Then  there  was  a  woman  went  out, 
ill-looked  upon  almost  all  her  life,  and  to  her 
dying  hour,  for  a  witch,  with  many  presump- 
tions of  the  same.  It  escaped  me,  in  the  former 
passages,  what  John  Muirhead  (whom  I  have 
often  mentioned)  told  me,  that  when  he  came 
from  Ireland  to  Galloway,  he  was  at  family- 


632 


NOTES. 


worship,  and  giving  some  notes  upon  the  Scrip- 
ture read,  when  a  very  ill-looking  man  came, 
and  sat  down  within  the  door,  at  the  back  of 
the  kalian  [partition  of  the  cottage]  :  immedi- 
ately he  halted  and  said,  '  There  is  some  un- 
happy body  just  now  come  into  this  house.  I 
charge  him  to  go  out,  and  not  stop  my  mouth !' 
This  person  went  out,  and  he  insisted  [went 
on],  yet  he  saw  him  neither  come  in  nor  go 
out." 


West  liter's  SBRcMjing. 
In  The  Reiver's  Wedding,  the  Poet  had 
evidently  designed  to  blend  together  two  tradi- 
tional stories  concerning  his  own  forefathers, 
the  Scotts  of  Harden,  which  are  detailed  in  the 
first  chapters  of  his  Life.  The  biographer  adds  : 
"  I  know  not  for  what  reason,  Lochwood,  the 
ancient  fortress  of  the  Johnstones  in  Annandale, 
has  been  substituted  for  the  real  locality  of  his 
ancestor's  drumhead  Wedding  Contract." 


iflottoes  from  tije  jBobels, 


In  the  Introduction  to  Chro?iicles  of  the 
Canongate,  Scott  says  :  "  The  scraps  of  poetry 
which  have  been  in  most  cases  tacked  to  the 
beginning  of  chapters  in  these  Novels,  are 
sometimes  quoted  either  from  reading  or  from 
memory,  but,  in  the  general  case,  are  pure  in- 
vention.    I  found  it  too  troublesome  to  turn  to 


the  collection  of  the  British  Poets  to  discover 
apposite  mottoes,  and,  in  the  situation  of  the 
theatrical  mechanist,  who,  when  the  white  paper 
which  represented  his  shower  of  snow  was  ex- 
hausted, continued  the  shower  by  snowing 
brown,  I  drew  on  my  memory  as  long  as  I  could, 
and  when  that  failed,  eked  it  out  with  invention." 


;siiu*^  — 


GLOSSARY. 


abbaye,  abbey. 

acton,  buckram  vest  worn  under  armor. 

air,  sand-bank. 

almagest,  astronomical  or  astrological  treatise. 

Almayn,  German. 

amice,  ecclesiastical  vestment. 

angel,  a  gold  coin. 

arquebus,  hagbut,  or  heavy  musket. 

aventayle,  movable  front  of  helmet. 

baldric,  belt. 

bale,  beacon-fire. 

ballium,  fortified  court. 

bandelier,  belt  for  carrying  ammunition. 

ban-dog,  watch-dog. 

bandrol,  a  kind  of  banner  or  ensign. 

barbican,  fortification  at  castle-gate. 

barded,  armored  (of  horses). 

barret-cap,  cloth  cap. 

bartizan,  small  overhanging  turret. 

basnet,  light  helmet. 

battalia,  battalion,  army  {not  a  plural). 

battle,  army. 

beadsman,  one  hired  to  offer  prayers  for  an- 
other. 

beaver,  movable  front  of  helmet. 

Beltane,  the  first  of  May  (a  Celtic  festival). 

bend,  bind. 

bend  (noun),  heraldic  term. 

bent,  slope. 

beshrew,  may  evil  befall ;  confound. 

bill,  a  kind  of  battle-axe  or  halberd. 

billmen,  troops  armed  with  the  bill. 

black-jack,  leather  jug  or  pitcher. 

blaze,  blazon,  proclaim. 

bonnet-pieces,  gold  coins  with  the  king's  cap 
(bonnet)  on  them. 

boune,  bowne,  prepare,  make  ready. 

boune,  ready,  prepared. 

bower,  chamber,  lodging-place;  lady's  apart- 
ments. 

bracken,  fern. 

brae,  hillside. 

bratchet,  slowhound. 

brigantine,  a  kind  of  body  armor. 

brigg,  bridge. 

broke,  quartered  (the  cutting  up  of  a  deer). 

buff,  a  thick  cloth. 

buxom,  lively. 

bv  times,  betimes,  early. 


caird,  tinker. 

cairn,  heap  of  stones. 

canna,  cotton-grass. 

cap  of  maintenance,  cap  worn   by  the   king-at- 

arms  or  chief  herald. 
cast,  pair  (of  hawks). 
chanters,  the  pipes  of  the  bagpipe. 
check  at,  meditate  attack  (in  falconry). 
cheer,  face,  countenance. 
claymore,  a  large  sword. 
clerk,  scholar. 
clip,  clasp,  embrace. 
combust,  astrological  term. 
corbel,  bracket. 
corotiach,  dirge. 

correi,  hollow  in  hillside,  resort  of  game. 
crabs,  crab-apples. 

crenell,  aperture  for  shooting  arrows  through. 
cresset,  hanging  lamp  or  chandelier. 
culver,  small  cannon. 
cumber,  trouble. 

curch,  matron's  coif,  or  head-dress. 
cushat-dove,  wood-pigeon. 

darkling,  in  the  dark. 

deas,  dais,  platform. 

deft,  skilful. 

demi-volt,  movement  in  horsemanship. 

dight,  decked,  dressed. 

donjon,  main  tower  or  keep  of  a  castle. 

doom,  judgment,  arbitration. 

double  tressure,  a  kind  of  border  .in  heraldry. 

do7vn,  hill. 

drie,  suffer,  endure. 

earn  (see  erne). 

eburnine,  made  of  ivory. 

embossed,  foaming  at  the  mouth  (hunter's  term). 

emprise,  enterprise. 

erne,  eagle. 

falcon,  a  kind  of  small  cannon. 

fay,  faith. 

featly,  skilfully. 

flemens-firth,  asylum  for  outlaws. 

foray,  raid,  incursion. 

force,  waterfall. 

fosse,  ditch,  moat. 

fretted,  adorned  with  raised  work. 

fro,  from. 

frounced,  flounced,  plaited. 


636 


GLOSSARY. 


galliard,  a  lively  dance. 

gallowglasses,  heavy-armed  soldiers  (Celtic). 

gazehound,  a  hound  that  pursues  by  sight  rather 

than  scent. 
ghast,  ghastly. 

gipon,  doublet  or  jacket  worn  under  armor. 
glaive,  broadsword. 
glamour,  magical  illusion. 
glee-maiden,  dancing-girl. 
glozing,  nattering. 
gorged,  having  the  throat  cut. 
gorget,  armor  for  the  throat. 
gramarye,  magic. 

gramercy,  great  thanks  (French,  grand  merci). 
gripple,  grasping",  miserly. 
grisly,  horrible,  grim. 
guarded,  edged,  trimmed. 
gules,  red  (heraldic). 

hackbuteer,  soldier  armed  with  hackbut  or  hag- 

but. 
nag,  broken  ground  in  a  bog. 
hagbut  {hackbut,  haquebut,  arquebus,  harquebuss, 

etc.),  a  heavy  musket. 
halberd  {halbert),  combined  spear  and  battle-axe. 
hale,  haul,  drag. 
hanger,  short  broadsword. 
harried,  plundered,  sacked. 
hearse,  canopy  over  tomb,  or  the  tomb  itself. 
henchman,  page,  attendant. 
heriot,  tribute  due  to  a  lord  from  a  vassal. 
heron-shew,  young  heron. 
hight,  called,  named. 
holt,  wood,  woodland. 
hosen,  hose  (old  plural). 

idlesse,  idleness. 
imp,  child. 
inch,  island. 

jack,  leather  jacket,  a  kind  of  armor  for  the 

body. 
jennet,  a  small  Spanish  horse. 
jerkin,  a  kind  of  short  coat. 

kale,  broth. 

kern,  light-armed  soldier  (Celtic). 

kill,  cell. 

kirn,  Scottish  harvest-home. 

kirtle,  skirt,  gown. 

knosp,  knob  (architectural). 

largesse,  largess,  liberality,  gift. 

lauds,  midnight  service  of  the  Catholic  Church. 

laverock,  lark. 

leaguer,  camp. 

leash,  thong  for  leading  greyhound  ;    also  the 

hounds  so  led. 
levin,  lightning,  thunderbolt. 
Lincoln  green,  a  cloth  worn  by  huntsmen. 
//;///,  waterfall ;  pool  below  fall ;  precipice.  . 
linstock  {lintstock),  handle  for  lint,  or  match  used 

in  firing  cannon. 
lists,  enclosure  for  tournament. 
litherlie,  mischievous,  vicious. 
lorn,  lost. 
lourd,  rather. 


lurch,  rob.  • 

lurcher,  a  dog  that  lurches  (lurks),  or  lies  in 

wait  for  game. 
lyke-wake,  watching  of  corpse  before  burial. 

make,  do. 

malison,  malediction,  curse. 

Malvoisie,  Malmsey  wine. 

march,  border,  frontier. 

march-treason,  offences  committed  on  the  Border. 

massy,  massive. 

mavis,  thrush. 

mere,  lake. 

merle,  blackbird. 

mewed,  shut  up,  confined. 

mickle,  much,  great. 

minion,  favorite. 

miniver,  a  kind  of  fur. 

morion,  steel  cap,  helmet. 

morrice-pike,  long  heavy  spear. 

morris,  a  kind  of  dance. 

morsing-horns,  powder-flasks. 

mot  {mote),  must,  might. 

muir,  moor,  heath. 

need-fire,  beacon-fire. 

oe,  island. 

Omrahs,  nobles  (Turkish). 
or,  gold  (heraldic). 
owches,  jewels. 

palmer,  pilgrim  to  Holy  Land. 

pardoner,  seller  of  priestly  indulgences. 

partisan,  halberd. 

peel,  Border  tower. 

pensils,  small  pennons  or  streamers. 

pentacle,  magic  diagram. 

pibroch,  Highland  air  on  bagpipe. 

pied,  variegated. 

pinnet,  pinnacle. 

placket,  stomacher,  petticoat,  slit  in  petticoat,  etc. 

plump,  body  of  cavalry  ;  group,  company. 

port,  martial  bagpipe  music. 

post  and  pair,  an  old  game  at  cards. 

presence,  royal  presence-chamber. 

pricked,  spurred. 

pursuivant,  attendant  on  herald. 

quaigh,  wooden  cup. 
quarry,  game  (hunter's  term). 
quatre-feuille,  quatrefoil  (Gothic  ornament). 
quit,  requite. 

rack,  floating  cloud. 

racking,  flying,  like  breaking  cloud. 

rade,  rode  (old  form). 

rais,  master  of  a  vessel. 

reads,  counsels. 

reave,  tear  away. 

rede,  story ;  counsel,  advice. 

retrograde,  astrological  term. 

risp,  creak. 

rochet,  bishop's  short  surplice. 

rood,  cross  (as  in  Holy-Rood). 

room,  piece  of  land. 

rowan,  mountain-ash. 

ruth,  pity,  compassion. 


GLOSSARY. 


637 


sack,  Sherry  or  Canary  wine. 

sackless,  innocent. 

saga,  Scandinavian  epic. 

salvo-shot,  salute  of  artillery. 

saye,  say,  assertion. 

scalds,  Scandinavian  minstrels. 

scapular,  ecclesiastical  scarf. 

scathe,  harm,  injury. 

scaur,  cliff,  precipice. 

scrae,  bank  of  loose  stones. 

scrogg,  shady  wood. 

sea-dog,  seal. 

selle,  saddle. 

seneschal,  steward  of  castle. 

sewer,  officer  who  serves  up  a  feast. 

shalm,  shawm,  musical  instrument. 

sheeting,  shepherd's  hut. 

sheen,  bright,  shining. 

shrieve,  shrive,  absolve. 

shroud,  garment,  plaid. 

sleights,  tricks,  stratagems. 

slogan,  Highland  battle-cry. 

snood,  maiden's  hair-band  or  fillet. 

soland,  solan-goose,  gannet. 

sooth,  true,  truth. 

sped,  despatched,  "  done  for." 

spell,  make  out,  study  out. 

springlet,  small  spring. 

spurn,  kick. 

stag  of  ten,  one  having  ten  branches  on  his  antlers. 

stance,  station. 

stirrup-cup,  parting  cup. 

stole,  ecclesiastical  scarf  (sometimes  robe). 

stoled,  wearing  the  stole. 

store  (adjective),  stored  up. 

slowre,  battle,  tumult. 

strain,  stock,  race. 

strath,  broad  river-valley. 

strathspey,  a  Highland  dance. 

streight,  strait. 

strook,  struck,  stricken. 

tabard,  herald's  coat. 
tarn,  mountain  lake. 
throstle,  thrush. 
tide,  time 


tire,  head-dress. 
tottered,  tattered,  ragged. 
train,  allure,  entice. 
tresstire,  border  (heraldic). 
trews,  Highland  trousers. 
trine,  astrological  term. 
trow,  believe,  trust. 

uneath,  not  easily,  with  difficulty. 
unsparred,  unbarred. 
upsees,  Bacchanalian  cry  or  interjection. 
urchin,  elf. 

vail,  avail. 

vail,  lower,  let  fall. 

vair,  fur  of  squirrel. 

vantage-coign,  advantageous  corner. 

vaward,  van,  front. 

vilde,  vile. 

wan,  won  (old  form). 

Warden-raid,  a  raid  commanded  by  a  Border 

Warden  in  person. 
warped,  frozen. 

warrison,  "  note  of  assault"  (Scott). 
wassail,  spiced  ale  ;  drinking-bout. 
weapon-schaw,  military  array  of  a  county;  muster. 
weed,  garment. 
whenas,  when. 

whilere  (while-ere),  erewhile,  a  while  ago. 
whilom  (whilome),  formerly. 
whin,  gorse,  furze. 
whingers,  knives,  poniards. 
whinyard,  hunter's  knife. 
wight,  active,  gallant,  warlike. 
wildering,  bewildering. 
wimple,  veil. 
woe-worth,  woe  be  to. 
woned,  dwelt. 

wraith,  apparition,  spectre. 
wreak,  avenge. 

yare,  ready. 

yerk,  jerk. 

yode,  went  (archaic). 


INDEX. 


"Abbot,"    Mottoes   from    the,    550, 

Abercorn,  Marquis  of,   dedication   of 

"The  Lady  of  the  Lake  "  to,  151. 
Abercromby,  Sir  Ralph,  tribute  to  the 

memory  of,  86. 
"  Admire  not  that  I  gained,"  537. 
Albania,  a  poem,  extract  from,  624,  »., 

625,  n. 
Albyn's  Anthology,  Songs  written  for, 

512,  513,  520,  521. 
"Alice  Brand,"  207. 
"  Allen-a-Dale,"  300. 
Alvanley,  Lady,  630,  n. 
Ambition,  personification  of,  261. 
"Ancient  Gaelic  Melody,"  531. 
Ancram  Moor,  battle  of,  575,  n. 
Angus,  Archibald,  sixth  Earl  of,  called  ! 

<rBell-the-Cat,"  119,  591,  n. 
Angus,  seventh  Earl  of,  38,  172,  575,  »., 

597>  n. 
"An  hour  with  thee,"  536. 
Annals  of  Scotland,  621,  «.,  622,  «. 
"Anne    of    Geierstein,"    Mottoes! 

from,  559,  560. 
"  Antiquary,"    Mottoes    from    the,  ' 

545.  546. 
Antiquities  of  Westmoreland  and  Cum- 
berland, 614,  n. 
Aram,    Eugene,  remarkable   case   of,  j 

609,  «. 
Archers,    English,    113,   416,   590,  n.,  ; 

622,  n. 
Argentine,  Sir  Giles  de,  376,  419,  617,  n. 
Arran,  Island  of,  401,  620,  n. 
Arthur,  King,  341-350,  580,  n,  581,  »., 

614,  «.,  615,  n. 
Artornish  Castle,  616,  n. 
Ascetic  religionists,  598,  n. 
Ascham,  622,  n. 
Ashton,  Lucy,  Song  of,  531. 
Athole,  John  de  Strathbogie,  Earl  of 

(temp.  Rob.  I.),  618,  «. 


Baillie,  'Joanna,    Prologue    to  her 

"  Family  Legend,"  498. 
"  Ballads  from  the  German,"  467- 

481. 
Bangor,  the  Monks  of,  520^  630,  «. 
"  Bannatyne  Club,  The,"  523. 
Bannockburn,  Battle  of,  414 ;  stanza  18 

to  end  of  the  poem.     See  also  notes, 

pp.  622,  623. 
"Bard's  Incantation,  The,"  writ- 
ten under  the  threat  of  invasion  1804, 

492,  629,  n. 
"  Barefooted  Friar,  The,"  532. 
Barnard  Castle,  273, 283,  607, ».,  608,  n. 
Barrington,  Shute,  Bishop  of  Durham, 

450. 


"  Battle  of  Sempach,"  475. 

Beacons,  26,  573,  n. 

Bealach-nam-bo,  Pass  of,  200. 

Beal'  an  Duine,  skirmish  at,  239, 
601,  n. 

Beattie,  Mr.,  of  Mickledale,  568,  n. 

Bellenden,  31,  575,  n. 

Bell-Rock  Lighthouse,  lines  on  visit- 
ing, 5°3- 

Beltane-tree,  the,  482,  626,  «. 

Ben-an  mountain,  157. 

Benledi,  153.  t 

Benvenue,  156. 

Benvoirlich,  152. 

Beresford,  Field-marshal  Lord,  tribute 
to,  268.  His  training  the  Portu- 
guese troops,  604,  n. 

,  501  

Berwick,  North,  124. 

"  Betrothed,"  Mottoes  from  the,  557. 

Bethune,  or  Beaton,  family  of,  8, 
.57L  «• 

Bigotry,  personification  of,  259. 

Binram's  Corse,  tradition  of,  585,  n. 

Biting  the  thumb,  or  the  glove,  50, 
576,  n. 

"  Black  Dwarf,"  Mottoes  from  the, 
546. 

Blackford  Hill,  108. 

Black-mail,  28. 

Blair,  Right  Honorable  Robert,  Lord 
President  of  the  Court  of  Session, 
death  of,  602,  n. 

Blood  of  which  party  first  shed,  an 
augury  of  success  in  battle,  205, 
600,  «. 

Blood-hound,  or  Sluith-hound,  9,  153, 
57i,  n.,  596,  n. 

"  Boat  Song,"  177. 

Bohun,  Sir  Henry  de,  his  encounter 
with  King  Robert  Bruce,  414,  622,  n. 

"  Bold  Dragoon,  or  the  Plain  of 
Badajos,"  501. 

Bolero,  a  Spanish  dance,  260,  603,  n. 

Bonaparte,  Napoleon,  allusions  to  in 
"The  Vision  of  Don  Roderick," 
261,  266,  267,  604,  «. ;  and  in  "  The 
Field  of  Waterloo,"  425  to  431,  623, 
n.  Apostrophe  to  the  period  of  his 
fall,  409,  410. 

,  501 • 

Bond  of  Alliance,  or  feud  stanching, 
betwixt  the  clans  of  Scott  and  Kerr, 
(1529)  570,  «. 

"  Bonny  Dundee,"  537. 

Book  of  the  Universal  Kirk,  601,  n. 

"Border  Ballad,"  533. 

Borderers,  Scottish.  Places  of  their 
herdsmen's  refuge,  574,  n.  March- 
treason,  575,  n.  Form  of  oath,  575, 
n.  Regulations  in  1648,  575,  n. 
Friendly  intercourse  with  the  Eng- 
lish, 576,  n.  Foot-ball  play,  576,  «. 
Manner  of  carrying  on  depredations, 
609,  n. 

41 


Borough-moor  of  Edinburgh,  108, 
590,  n. 

Bothwell,  Adam  Hepburn,  Earl  of, 
(temp.  Jac.  IV.)  104,  589,  n. 

James  Hepburn,.  Earl  of,  (temp. 

Mary)  38,  576,  «. 

"  Bothwell  Castle,"  540. 

Bowhill,  58. 

Brackenbury  Tower,  291,  609,  n. 

Bracklinn  Cascade,  174,  598,  n. 

Branksome  Castle,  5  passim,  570,  n. 

"  Bridal  of  Triermain,-'  337.  See 
also  6r6,  n. 

"  Bride  of  Lammermoor,"  Mottoes 
from  the,  548. 

Brigg,  or  Bridge  of  Turk,  153. 

Brodick  Castle,  Arran,  402,  620,  «. 

"  Brooch  of  Lorn,"  the,  377,  617,  «. 

Bruce,  King  Robert,  defeated  by  the 
Lord  of  Lome,  617,  n.  His  com- 
punction for  violation  of  the  sanctu- 
ary by  the  slaughter  of  Comyn,  618, 
n.  Excommunicated  for  it,  618,  n. 
Sequel  to  that  adventure  told  by 
Barbour,  619,  n.  Tradition  that  he 
was  at  the  battle  of  Falkirk  inaccu- 
rate, 618,  n-  Crossed  the  Peninsula 
of  Cantyre,  620,  n.  Landing  in 
Arran,  396.  Instance  of  his  hu- 
manity, 397,  620,  ft.  His  landing  in 
Carrick,  402,  405,  620,  ft.  Defeats  the 
Earl  of  Pembroke,  621,  n.  Block- 
ade of  Stirling  Castle,  410,  621,  «. 
Encounter  with  Sir  Henry  de  Bohun, 
414,  622,  ft.  Battle  of  Bannockburn, 
415  to  end  of  the  poem,  and  622  to 
end  of  the  notes. 

Bruce,  Edward,  brother  of  King  Rob- 
ert, 410,  620,  «.,  621,  n. 

Nigel,    another    brother    of    the 

King,  381. 

Brunswick,  Duke  of,  slain  at  Jena,  86. 

Buccaniers,  280,  286,  607,  «.,  608,  «., 
609,  «.,  610,  n. 

Buccleuch,  ancestors  of  the  house  of, 
570,  n.  Romantic  origin  of  the  name, 
5i,  570,  n.,  571,  n. 

Charles,   Duke  of,   Letters   in 

Verse  to,  503. 

Harriet,  Duchess  of,  74,  568,  n. 

Tribute  to  her  memory,  420. 

Byron,  Lord,  Remarks  on  a  conversa- 
tion betwixt  him  and  Captain  Med- 
win,  569,  «.  His  Satire  on  Marmion, 
579,  «.  Lines  on  Pitt  and  Fox, 
62,63. 


C. 


Cadogan,  Colonel,  tribute  to  the  mem- 
ory of,  268. 

"  Cadyow  Castle,"  488,  627,  n. 

"  Cairns,"  26,  574,  «. 

Caledonian  Forest  and  wild  cattle,  489, 
627,  n. 


642 


ISDEX. 


Cambusmore,  153- 

Cameron,  Colonel,  killed  at  Fuentes 

de  Honoro,  268,  604,  «. 
Colonel,  of  Fassiefern,  killed  at 

Quatre-Bras,  429,  507. 
Cameronians,  631,  n. 
Camp,  a  favorite  dog  of  the  author's, 

99* 
Carina,  island  and  town  of,  393, 619,  n. 
Cantyre,  peninsula  of,  395,  620,  n. 
"Castle      Dangerous,"      Mottoes 

from,  561. 
"Castle  of  the  Seven  Shields/' 

ballad  of  the,  453. 
Cave,    Mac-Allister's,    in    Strathaird, 

619,  n. 
Caxton,  William,  101. 
Chapel  Perilous,  63,  580,  n. 
Charles  I.,  King,  611,  «. 
Edward,  Prince,  one  of  his  places 

of  retreat,  597,  n. 
Charms,  healing,  25,  26,  576,  «. 
Chace,  ihe  royal,  in   Etirick   Forest, 

584,  n. 
Chastity,  punishment  for  broken  vows 

of,  84',  588,  n. 
"Cheviot,"  543. 
Chivalry,  34,  306,  575,  «.,  611,  «. 
Christmas,  128,  592,  n. 
"Chronicles  of  the  Canongate," 

Mottoes  from,  559,  632,  n. 
"  Claud  Halcro's  Song,"  534. 
Claverhouse,  Grahame  of.     See  Dun- 
dee. 
"Cleveland's  Songs,"  535. 
Coir-nan-Uriskin,  199,  599,  » 
Coler.dge,   S.    T,   his   "  Christabel," 

569,  «.    "  The  Bridal  of  Triermain," 

an  imitation  of  his  style,  337- 
Collins,    his    flights    of    imagination, 

338. 
Colwulf,  King  of  Northumberland,  81, 

587,  n. 
ComUat,  single,  34,  36,  121,  222. 
Comyn,  the  Red,  375,  378,  382,  618,  n. 
Conscience,  273,  275. 
Constable,  Mr.  Archibald,  his  "bold 

and  liberal  industry,"  570,  «. 
Coronach    of    the    Highlanders,   194, 

599.  «• 

"Count  Robert  of  Paris,"  Mot- 
toes from,  560,  561. 

"County  Guy,"  Song,  535. 

Cranstoun,  family  of,  571,  n. 

Crichtoun  Castle,  103,  589,  «. 

Critical  Review,  614,  «. 

Cromwell,  Oliver,  his  conduct  at  Mar- 
ston  Moor,  279,  291,  607,  n. 

Cup,  a  drinking  one,  at  Dunevegan, 
617,  n. 

"  Curch,    the,"  worn  by  Scottish  ma- 

"  Cypress  Wreath,  The,"  314. 


Dacre,  29,  574,  n. 

Dahomay,  s>el)  of,  359. 

Dalhotwe,  Karl  of,  tribute  to,  502. 

Dalkeith,  Charles,  Earl  of,  (afterwards 
Duke  of  I'.ucc  euch)  dedication  of 
"The  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel" 
See  Buccleuch. 

Harriet,  COOBMM  <>i  (afterwards 

Duchess  of  Buccleuch),  568,  n.  See 
a'so  Buccleuch. 

Dal/ell,  Sir  William,  his  combat  with 
Sir  Piers  Courtenay.  5S3,  «. 

"Dance  of  Dhatii,  Tin:,"  507. 

Danus,  the,  invasion  of  Northumber- 
land by,  301,  610,  u.  Traces  of  their 
religion  in  Teesdale,  610,  n. 

Daome  Shi,1  or  "  men  of  peace," 
5<>2,  «.,  600,  n. 


David  I.,  King,  founded  Melrose  Ab- 
bey, 571,  n.  A  sore  saint  for  the 
crown,  571,  n. 

"  Dead  bell"  the,  588,  n. 

Death,  presages  of,  599,  «. 
Death  of  Keeldar,  The,"  525. 


Deloraine,  lands  of,  571, 
Description  of  the  Wes 


estern   Islands, 


597.  «•     „ 

"  Donald  Caird's  come  again,    521. 

Donjon,  what,  582,  n. 

"Don  Roderick,  The  Vision  of, 
253. 

Douglas,  the  House  of,  593,  «•  Ancient 
sword  belonging  to,  592,  n. 

Archibald,  third   Earl  of,  called 

"  Tine-man,"  598,  n. 

"  The  Good  Lord  James  "  charged 

to  carry  the  Bruce' s  heart  to  the 
Holy  Land,  618,  «.  In  Arran, 
620,  n.  Makes  prisoners  of  Murray 
and  Bonkle,  620,  n.  Often  took 
the  Castle  of  Douglas,  621,  n.  His 
"Larder,"  621,  «.  At  Bannock- 
burn,  415. 

William,  "  the  knight  of  Liddes- 

dale,"  14,  572,  «. 

Gawain,  Bishop  of  Dunkeld,  135, 

593,  n. 

Doune  Castle,  226. 

Drinking  cup,  description  of,  617,  n. 

Dryburgh  Abbey,  487,  627,  n. 

Dryden,  his  account  of  his  projected 
epic  poem  of  "  The  Round  Table," 
64,  581,  n. 

Duelling,  224,  601,  n. 

Dundas,  Right  Honorable  William, 
579,  n. 

Dundee,  Viscount  (Grahame  of  Claver- 
house), 28,  574,  n.     His  character, 

597,  «•     . 
Dunmailraise,  340,  614,  n. 
"  Dunois,  Romance  of,"  508. 
Dunstaffnage  Castle,  617,  n. 
Durham  Cathedral,  445. 
"Dying  Bard,  The,"  494,  629,  «. 


Edelfled,  daughter  of  King  Oswy, 

80,  586,  n. 
Edinburgh,    ancient    cross    of,      22, 

592,  «. 

Annual  Register,  612,  «.,  614,  «. 

Old  Town  of,  in,  590,  n. 

Edward  I.,  King.     His  employment  of 

the    Welsh    in    his  Scottish    wars, 

621,   n.      Sets  out    to   destroy  the 

Bruce,    392,  619,    n.      His    death, 

619,  «. 
II.   at    Bannockburn,   416.     His 

gallantry,  623,  «. 
Egliston  Abbey,  284,  608,  «. 
Eigg,  cave  in  the  Island  of,  the  scene 

of   a    dreadful   act    of   vengeance, 

619,  n. 
Eildon  Hills,  14,  572,  n. 
Ellis,  George,  Esq..  582,  n.     Dedica- 
tion to  him  of  the   Fifth  Canto  of 

Marmion,  in. 
Elves,  600,  n.     See  "  Fairies." 
English  Bards  and  Scotch  Reviewers, 
m  579,  f- 
Ennui,  436,  464. 
Epic    Poem,  a  receipt  to  make  an, 

612,  «. 

Poetry,  612,  n. 

"Epilogues."     To  The  Appeal,  a 

Tragedy,  520.     Play  of  St.#Ronan's 

Well,  524.     Queen  Mary,  525. 
"  Epitaphs."  —  Miss    Seward,    498. 

Mrs.     Erskine,     521.      The     Rev. 

Geom  Scott,  526. 
"  Erl  King,  The,"  481. 


Erskine,  Thomas  Lord,  speech  of,  on 
humanity  towards  animals,  622,  n. 

William,  Esq.  (Lord    Kinneder), 

dedication  to,  of  the  Third  Canto  of 
Marmion,  86.  Reputed  author  of 
"  The  Bridal  of  Triermain,"  616,  n. 

Mrs.,  Epitaph  on,  521. 

Ettrick  Forest,  584,  n. 

Eugene  Aram,  remarkable  case  of, 
609,  n. 

"  Eve  of  St.  John,"  486.  See  also 
627,  n. 

Excursion  to  the  Lakes,  615,  n. 


Fairies,  588,  «.,  600,  «.,  603,  «. 

"  Fair  Maid  of   Perth,"   Mottoes 

from  the,  559 
Fancy,  power  of,  in  youth,  282. 
"  Farewell  to    Mackenzie,   High 

Chief  of  Kintail,"  from  the  Gaelic, 

5°5- 
"  Farewell  Imitation  of,     506. 

" to  the  Muse,"  522. 

" Song  of  the,"  318. 

Ferragus  and  Ascabart,  164,  597,  n. 

Feuds,  570,  «. 

"  Field  of  Waterloo,"  poem  of  the, 

423,  623,  n. 
Fiery  Cross,  the,  187,  188,  598,  n. 
Fingal's  Cave  at  Staffa,  394^ 
"  Fire   King,"    ballad  of   the,  472» 

625,  n. 
Flanders,  manner  of  reaping  in,  623,  n. 
Flodden,  account  of  the  battle  of,  139. 
Florinda,  daughter  of  Count   Julian, 

255,  603,  »• 

"  Flower  of  Yarrow,"  Mary  Scott,  30, 
554,  n. 

"  Flying  Dutchman,  the,"  609,  n. 

Football,  game  of,  509,  576,  n. 

"  Foray,  The"  526. 

Forbes,  Sir  William  (author  of  "  The 
Life  of  Beattie "),  tribute  to  his 
memory,  99,  589,  n. 

"  Fortunes  of  Nigel,"  Mottoes 
from  the,  553-555-  ,      , 

Fox,  Right  Honorable  Charles  James, 
"  among  those  who  smiled  on  the 
adventurous  minstrel,"  570,  n. 
Never  applied  to  by  Scott  regarding 
his  appointment  as  a  Clerk  of  Ses- 
sion, 579,  n.  Tribute  to  his  mem- 
ory, 62. 

Franchemont,  superstitious  belief  re- 
garding the  Castle  of,  129,  593,  n. 

Fraser[or  Frizel],  Sir  Simon,  ancestor 
of  the  family  of  Lovat,  fate  of,  381. 

"  Frederick  and  Alice,"  475, 625,  n. 

French  army  in  the  Peninsula,  move- 
ments of,  application  to,  of  prophe- 
cies of  Joei,  603,  n.  Retreat  of, 
March  181 1,  603,  n. 

"  Friar  Rush,"  100,  589,  n. 

"  From  the  French,"  509. 

Fuentes  d' Honoro,  action  of,  604,  n. 

"  Funeral  Hymn,"  532.  . 


"  Gaelic  Melody,  Ancient,"  531. 

Gala,  the  river,  367. 

Gait,    John,     Esq.,  epilogue    to    his 

tragedy  of  "The  Appeal,"  520. 
"  German    Ballads,    translated    or 

imitated,"  467-481. 
German  hackbut-men,  29,  574,  n. 
Ghost  of  the    Lady   Bothwellhaugh, 

629,  n. 
Gifford,  village  and  castle  of,  88. 
Glamour,  22,  573,  n. 
"  Glee  Maiden,  Song  of  the,"  536. 
Glee-maidens,  236,  601,  n. 


INDEX. 


643 


Glencairn,    "The    Good    Earl"    of, 

490,  629,  n. 
"  Glencoe,  On  the  Massacre  of," 

501,  630,  n. 
*'  Glenfinlas,"  482,  626.  «. 
Goblin- Hall,  the,  94,  588,  n. 
Goblin-Page,  Lord  Cranstoun's,  573,  n. 
Gordon,  Colonel,  the  Hon.  Sir  Alexan- 
der, killed  at  Waterloo,  429,  623,  n. 
Graeme,     or    Grahame,    families    of, 

577.  «•>  5.97.  «•>  604,  n. 
Graham,  Sir  John  the,  597,  n. 
"  Gray  Bkother,  The,"  539,  631,  «. 
"  Gray  Mare's  Tail,"  the,  a  cataract, 

58S,  n. 
Greta  Bridge,  284,  608,  n. 
River,    285,    294,    296,    608,   «., 

610,  n. 
Guardian,  The,  613,  n. 
Guisards  ot  Scotland,  592,  n. 
Gunn,  John,  a  noted  Highland  robber, 

story  of,  600,  n. 


H. 


Hailes,  Lord,  367,  523. 

Hairibee,  10,  571,  n. 

Hamilton,  family  of,  627,  n. 

Right  Hon.  Lady  Anne,  488. 

of  Kothwellhaugh,  account  of  his 

assassination  of  the  Regent  Murray, 
628,  «. 

Lord  Claud,  489,  628,  «. 

Right  Hon.  W.  G.  (Singlespeech 

Hamilton),  615,  n. 

"  Harold  the  Dauntless,"  435. 

" Harfager,  Song  of,"  534. 

"  Harp,  Song  of  the,"  316. 

Hawks,  576,  «. 

Hawthornden,  539. 

*'  Heart  of  Midlothian,"  Mottoes 
from  the,  547. 

Heath-burning,  599,  n. 

Heber,  Richard,  Esq.,  dedication  of 
the  Sixth  Canto  of  Marmion  to,  128. 

Hebridean  chiefs,  fortresses  of,  617,  «. 

"  Hellvellyn,"  493. 

Henry  VI.,  King  of  England,  at  Edin- 
burgh, 590,  n. 

Hepburn,  family  of,  576,  n.  See 
Bothwell. 

Heralds,  5S3,  u. 

Heron,  William,  of  Ford,  and  his  lady, 
68,  116,  583.  «.,  591,  n. 

of  Gilmerton,  631,  n. 

"  Hero's  Targe,"  a  rock  in  Glenfinlas, 
204,  600,  n. 

Hierarchie,  571,  «. 

Highlanders,  Scottish,  their  hospital- 
ity. 597.  n-  Music,  176,  598,  n. 
The  Bard,  a  family  officer,  597,  n. 
Epithets  of  their  chiefs,  598,  n. 
Tutelar  spirits,  599,  n.  Brogue  or 
shoe,  599,  n.  Coronach,  194,  599,  n. 
Cookery,  6oo,  n.     Trust- worthiness, 

600,  n.      Targets  and  Broadswords, 

601,  n.  Modes  of  inquiring  into 
futurity,  599,  n.  Ancient  custom 
respecting  marriage,  618,  n. 

History  of  Cumberland,  577,  «. 

the  Rebel. ion,  600,  n. 

Scotland,  585,  «. ,  589,  «.,  591,  «., 

593,  «.,  628,  n. 
"  Hither  we  Come,"  538. 
Hogg,  Mr.  James,  588,  n.      "  Poetic 

Mirror,"  616,  n. 
Holy  Island,  or  Lindisfarne,  585,  «. 
Home,  family  of,  575,  «.,  576,  n. 
-  Lord  Chamberlain  to  James  IV., 

his  conduct  at  Flodden,  594,  n. 
Homer,  612,  n. 

Horner,  Gilpin,  story  of,  573,  n. 
Horses,  shrieking  of,  in   agony,  417, 

622,  «. 


Hostelrie.     See  Inu. 

Hotspur.     See  Percy. 

Hot-trod,  the,  pursuit  of  Border  Ma- 
rauders, 576,  «. 

Howard,  Lord  William,  "  Belted  Will 
Howard,"  29,  574,  n. 

Hunting,  152-154,  301,  470,  489,  596, 
n.,  624,  n. 

aerial,  superstition  of,  624, «, 

"  Hunting  Song,"  496. 

"  Huntsman,  Lay  of  the  Impris- 
oned," 244. 

"Hymn  for  the  Dead,"  58. 

" Funeral,"  532. 

" Rebecca's,"  532. 

" to  the  Virgin,"  201. 


I  lay,  Island  of,  370. 

Inch-Cailliach(the  Isle  of  Nuns),  190, 
599.  «• 

Indians,  the  North  American,  292. 

Inn,  or  Hostelrie,  Scottish  accommo- 
dations of  an,  in  the  16th  century, 
588,  «. 

lot  of  the  heathen  Danes,  128,  592,  n. 

Ireland,  Spenser's,  611,  n. 

Irish,  the  Tanist,  302,  611,  n.  Bards, 
611,  n.  Chiefs  required  to  assist 
Edward  I.  in  his  Scottish  wars. 
622,  n. 

"  Ivanhoe,"  Mottoes  from,  548,  549. 


J- 


James  III.,  K.  of  Scotland,  rebellion 
against,  590,  n. 

IV.     His  person  and   dress,   1 16. 

Penance  of,  590,  n.  His  belt,  116, 
591,  n.  Apparition  to,  at  Linlith- 
gow, 589,  n.  Death  of,  at  Flodden, 
594,  n. 

V.      Quells  the  Border  robbers, 

181.  Why  called  "King  of  the 
Commons,"  601,  «.,  602,  n.  Trav- 
els in  disguise,  602,  n. 

Jamieson,  Rev.  Dr.  John,  367. 

Jeffrey,  Francis,  now  Lord,  his  success 
professionally  and  in  literature, 
566,  n.,  569,  n. 

"Jock  of  Hazeldean,"  512. 

Joel,  application  of  a  passage  from  the 
Prophecies  of,  603,  «. 

Jongleurs,  or  Jugglers,  601,  «. 

Julian,  Count,  603,  n. 

"Juvenile  Lines  from  Virgil."  529, 
631,  n. 

" On    a    Thunder   Storm,"   529, 

63 1,  n. 

" On  the  Setting  Sun,"  529. 


"  Kemble,  John  Philip,  his  Fare- 
well Address  on  taking  leave  of  the 
Edinburgh  stage,"  519. 

"  Kenilworth,"  Mottoes  from,  551, 
552. 

Ker  or  Carr,  family  of,  571,  «. 

Kerrs  and  Scotts,  feuds  of  the,  570,  «. 

Knighthood,  34,  575,  n. 


"  LadV  of  the  Lake,"  151. 
Lancey,    Sir    William    de,    killed    at 

Waterloo,  428. 
Largs,  Battle  of,  492,  588,  n. 
"  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel,"  3. 
" Poor  Louise,"  536. 


"  Lay  of  the  Imprisoned  Hunts- 
man," 244. 

"  Legend  of  Montrose,"  MQttoes 
from  the,  548. 

Lennox,  district  of  the,  598,  n 

Letters  in  Verse,  to  the  Duke  of 
Buccleugh,  503. 

Leven,  Earl  of  (1644 J,  607,  n. 

Leyden,  Dr.  John,  his  death,  394, 
619,  «. 

Lichfield  Cathedral,  stormed  in  the 
civil  war,  146,  594,  n. 

Life  of  Scott.  614,  n. 

Lindesay,  Sir  David,  of  the  Mount, 
102,  589,  «. 

Lord  of  the  Byres,  490,  629,  n. 

Lindisfarne,  or  Holy  Island,  585,  «. 

Lines.     See  Juvenile. 

Loch  Coriskin,  386. 

"  Lochinvar,"  Lady  Heron's  song, 
118. 

Loch  Katrine,  156,  596,  n. 

Loch  of  the  Lowes,  585,  n. 

Loch  Ranza,  395,  620,  n. 

Loch  Skene,  76,  585,  n. 

"  Lord  of  the  Isles,"  367. 

"  Lord  of  the  Isles,"  616,  n.  Contro- 
versy regarding  the  representation  of 
the,  617,  n. 

Lorn,  the  House  of,  617,  n- 

Love,  power  of,  21.  The  gift  of 
heaven,  41. 

"  Lullaby  of  an   Infant  Chief," 

"  Lucy  Ashton's  Song,"  531. 

"  Miscellaneous  Pieces,"  in  the 
order  of  their  composition  or  publi- 
cation, 492-526. 

Lyrical  Pieces.     See  Songs. 

"  Lyulph's  Tale,"  341. 


Macdonald,  Ranald,  Esq.,  of  Staff  a, 
"Lines  Addressed  to,"  502. 

Macdonalds  suffocated  in  the  Cave  of 
Eigg,  619,  n. 

MacDougal,  of  Lorn,  family  of,  617,  n. 

MacAUister's  cave  in  Strathaird,  390, 
619.  «. 

"  MacGregor's   Gathering,"    513, 

630,  n. 

"  MacIvor's,  Flora,  Song,"  530. 

"Mackenzie,  High  Chief  of  Kin- 
tail,  Farewell  to,"  505.  "  Imi- 
tation of,"  506. 

"  MacLean,  War  Song,  of  Lach- 
lan,"  High  Chief  of,  506. 

MacLellan,  tutor  of  Bombay,  beheaded 
by  the  Earl  of  Angus,  593,  n. 

"  Mackrimmon's      Lament,"     520, 

631,  n. 

MacLeod  of  MacLeod,  520,  617,  n. 
MacLeod,  Laird  of,  his  Cruel  Revenge 

on  the  Macdonalds  of  Eigg,  619,  «. 
Magic,  572,  «.,  573,  «.,  576,  «.,  588,  *., 


495. 


592,  «.,  593,  «.,  608,  «.,  609,  n. 
"  Maid  of  Isla,  The,"  522. 
"  Maid  of   Neidpath,   The," 

630,  n. 
"  Maid  of  Toro,  The,"  494. 
Maida,  Battle  of,  430. 
Maitland,  Sir  Richard  of  Lethington, 

16th  century,  poem  by,  584,  n. 
Malefactors,  infatuation  of,  288, 609,  n. 
March-treason,  34,  575,  «. 
"  Marmion  ;   a  Tale  of  Flodden- 

Field,"  61. 
Marmion,  family  of,  583,  *. 

Robert  de,  592,  «. 

Marriott,    Rev.    John,    dedication    to 

him  of  the  Second  Canto   of  Mai- 

mion,  74. 
Marston-Moor,  Battle  of,  607,  ». 


644 


INDEX. 


Mary,    Queen    of   Scots   (Epilogue), 

"  Massacre  of  Glencoe,  On  the," 

501,  630,  //. 
Maurice,  Abbot  of  Inchaffray,  622,  n. 
Mauthe-Doog,  the,  Isle  of  Man,  577,  ;/. 
Mayburgh.  mound  at,  340,  614,  «. 
Mazers,  drinking  cups,  408,  621,  //. 
Melrose  Abbey,  11,  571,  n. 
Melville,      Henry,      Lord    Viscount, 

death  of,  in  181 1,  602,  n. 
"  Men  0/ Peace."     See  Daoine  Shi- 
Merlin,  254. 
Milan,  artists  of,  their  skill  in  armory, 

65,  582,  ;/. 
Military  Antiquities,  607,  n. 
Miller,    Colonel,  of  the  Guards,  428, 

623,  n. 
Mingarry  Castle,  370,  616,  «.* 
Minto  Crags,  10,  571,  n. 
"  Monastery,"    Mottoes    from    the, 

549,  550. 
"  Monks  of  Bangor's  March,"  520, 

630,  n. 
Monmouth,  Duke  of,  4. 
Montague,  dedication  of  Marmion  to, 

61. 
Montrose,  James,    first    Marquis    of, 

597'  «• 

Moors,  the  invasion  of  Spain  by,  603,  «. 

Moray,  Thomas  Randolph,  Earl  of,  at 
Bannockburn,  414,  621,  n. 

Morritt,  J.  B.  S.,  Esq.,  dedication  to 
him  of  Rokeby,  273.  "  Morte  Ar- 
thur," romance  of  the,  extract  from 
regarding  the  "  Chapell  Perilous," 
580,  n. 

Mortham  Castle,  description  of,  287, 
609,  n. 

Morton,  Earl  of,  Regent,  490,  629,  n. 

Moss-troopers,  9.     See  Borderers. 

"  Mottoes  from  the  Waverley  Nov- 
els," 545-56i- 

Mull,  the  Sound  of,  370.  616,  n. 

Mummers,  English,  592,  n. 

Murray,  the  Regent,  death  of,  628,  n. 


N 


Neal  Naighvallach,  an  Irish  King 

of  the  fourth  or  fifth  century,  611,  n. 
"  Neck  Verse,"  the,  10,  571,  n. 
Necromancy,- 571,  «.,  576,  n. 
Nelson,  Lord,  tribute  to  the  memory 

of, 62. 
Newark  Castle,  on  the  Yarrow,  4. 
Nicholas,    Grand    Duke    of    Russia, 
i:s  sung  after  a  dinner  given 

to  him  at  Edinburgh,"  513. 
"  Noble     Moringer,     The,"    477, 

625,  n. 
"  Nora's  Vow,"  512,  630,  n. 


Norham  Castle,  64,  582,  «. 
Shoe, 


NORMAN-HORSE 


The,"  494, 


North  Berwick,  124,  592,  n. 


I,  M. 

'.09,  n. 
"  ')ii,    Hon  \i.ity,"  Mottoes  from, 
547- 

lie,  family  of,  302,  610,  n. 

r's  Mountains 
"  522. 

"   ON     III!      M  I  .I.ENCOE," 

501,  630,  n. 
Orelia,  the  courser  of  Don  Roderick, 

25S,  6031  «. 

M  Mi).  Tin •,"  531. 

Octerb l'.attle  of,  134,  571,  «. 

Ovid,  566,  n. 


Padua,   a  school  of  necromancy,  8, 

571,  n. 
Page,   the   order  of  the,  in  chivalry, 

611,  n- 
Paisley,  489,  628,  n. 

"  Palmer,  The,"  495. 
Palmers,  71,  584,  «. 
Passion,  the  ruling,  87. 
Peden,  Alexander,  631,  n. 
Peel-town,    Castle  of,   Isle   of   Man, 

577.  »• 

Penance  vaults,  587,  n- 

Penrith,  "  Round-table  "  of,  340, 614,  n. 

Percy,  Henry,  571,  «.,  598,  n. 

"  Peveril  of  the  Peak,"  Mottoes 
from,  555.  556- 

"Pharos  Loquitur,     503. 

Philipson,  Major  Robert,  called 
"  Robin  the  Devil,"  611,  ft. 

Pibroch,  the,  598,  n. 

"Pibroch  of.  Donald  Dhu,"  512, 
630,  n. 

Picton,  Sir  Thomas,  428,  623,  ». 

Pilgrims,  584,  n. 

"  Pirate,"  Mottoes  from  the,  552, 
553- 

11  p1TT  Club  of  Scotland,  Song  writ- 
ten for  the,"  502. 

Pitt,  Right  Hon.  William,  "Among 
those  who  smiled  on  the  adventurous 
minstrel,"  570,  n.  Procured  for  Scott 
the  office  of  Clerk  of  Session,  578, 
».,  579,  n.  Tributes  to  his  memory, 
62,  63,  147.  His  grave  beside  that 
of  Mr.  Fox,  63. 

"  Poacher,  The,"  498. 

"  Poetry,  Romantic,  Remarks  on," 

612,  n. 

Ponsonby,  Sir  William,  428,  623,  n. 

Priam,  99. 

"  Prologue,"  498. 

"  Proud  Maisie,"  531. 

Pryse,  "  to  sound  the,"  489,  628,  n. 


Q. 


"Quentin  Durward,"  Mottoes  from, 

556 

R. 

Rae,  Right  Hon.  Sir  William,  99. 

Ramsay,  Sir  Alexander,  of  Dalhousie, 
cruel  murder  of,  572,  n. 

,  Captain,  at  the  action  of  Fuentes 

d'Honoro,  604,  n. 

Randolph,  Thomas.    See  Moray. 

Ravensheuch  Castle,  55. 

Ravensworth  Castle,  300. 

"  Rebecca's  Hymn,"  532. 

"  Receipt  to  make  an  epic  poem," 
612,  «. 

Rede,  Percy,  279,  607,  n. 

"  Reiver's  Wedding,  The,  "  543, 
632,  n. 

11  Resolve,  The,"  497. 

Rere-Cross,  on  Stanmore,  301,  610,  n. 

"  Return  to  Ulster,  The,"  511. 

Risingham,  279,  607,  n. 

Ritson,  Mr.,  622,  n. 

Robert  the  Bruce.     See  Bruce. 

Robertson,  Rev.  Principal,  his  account 
of  the  death  of  the  Regent  Murray, 
628,  n. 

"  Rob  Roy,"  Mottoes  from,  547. 

Robin  Hood,  228,  598,  «.,  601,  «. 

Roderick,  Gothic  King  of  Spain,  de- 
feated and  killed  by  the  Moors, 
603,*.     See  Don  Roderick. 

"  Rokeby,"  273. 

Rokeby  Castle,  284,  608,  «.,  611,  n. 

family  of,  608,  n. 


Roman  antiquities  at  Greta  Bridge, 
608,  «. 

camp,  601,  u. 

"  Romance  of  Dunois,"  508. 

Rose,  William  Stewart,  Esq.,  dedica- 
tion to,  of  the  First  Canto  of  Mar- 
mion, 61. 

Ross,  Sir  Walter,  620.  n. 

"  Round  Table,"  581,  «.,  615,  n. 

Rum,  Island  of,  619,  «. 

Russell,  Major-General  Sir  James,  of 
Ashestiel,  578,  n. 

Rutherford,  of  Hunthill,  family  of- 
576,  n. 


"  Saint  Cloud,"  507,  630,  n. 

Saint  John,  Vale  of,  615,  n. 

St.  Mary's  Lake.  75,  585,  «. 

"  St.  Ronan's  Well,"  Mottoes  from, 

556,  557-  ,     „ 

"  St.  Swithin  s  Chair,"  529. 

Saints.  St.  Bride  of  Douglas,  57,  578, 
n.  Chad,  146,  594,  n.  Columba, 
626,  n.  Cuthbert,  76,  80,  81,  587,  n. 
Dunstan,  597,  n.  Fillan,  72,  485, 
584,  n.,626,  n.  George,  431.  Hilda, 
80,  586,  n.  Maronock,  597,  «.  Mo- 
dan,  171,  597,  n.  Oran,  483,  485, 
626,  n.    Regulus  (Scottice  Rule),  72, 

584,  «.  Rosalia,  71,  584,  «.  Serle, 
227. 

Salamanca's  Cave,  572,  n. 
Sangreal,  the,  63,  581,  n. 
Scales-tarn,  Lake  of,  614,  n. 
Scott  of  Buccleucfu     See  Buccleuch. 
of  Harden,  family  of,  30,  574  ft., 

585,  «. 

Hugh,  Esq. ,  of  Harden,  now  Lord 

Polwarth,  inscription  for  the  monu- 
ment of  the  Rev.  George  Scott,  his 
son,  526. 

Sir  John,  of  Thirlestane,  29,  574,  n. 

Mary,  "  the  Flower  of  Yarrow," 

30,  575,  «.,  585,  ft. 

Sir  Michael,  14,  572,  ft. 

and  Kerr,  feuds  of  the  families  of, 

570,  n. 

Sea-fire,  phenomenon  so  called,  617,  n. 

Seal,  its  taste  for  music,  369,  616,  n. 

"  Search  after  Happiness,  the  ;  or, 
the  Quest  of  Sultaun  Solimaun,"  514. 

Second-sight,  account  of  the,  596,  n., 

626,  n. 

"  Selectors  of  the  slain,"  577,  n. 

"Sempach,  Battle  of,"  475,  625,  n. 

Serenedib,  514. 

"  Setting  Sun,"  Juvenile  Lines  on 
the,  529. 

"Seven  Shields,  The  Castle  of 
the,"  ballad  of,  453. 

Spears  of  Wedderburn,   38,  575, 

n- 

Seward,  Miss  Anna,  epitaph  designed 
for  her  monument,  498. 

Shane-Dymas,  an  Irish  chieftain  in  the 
reign. of  Elizabeth,  305. 

"  Shepherd's  Tale,  The,"  540. 

Shoreswood,  the  priest  of,  584,  ft. 

Siddons,  Mrs.  Henry,  Epilogues  writ- 
ten for,  520,  525. 

Skene,  James,  Esq.,  ofRubislaw,  dedi- 
cation to,  of  the  Fourth  Canto  of 
Marmion,  98. 

Skye,  Island  of,  385. 

Smallholm     Tower,      description    of, 

627,  n. 

"  Smith,  Miss,  Lines  written  for," 

518. 
Smith,  Sir  Sidney,  Tribute  to,  86. 
Snakes  and  Serpents,  577,  n. 
Snood,  worn  by  Scottish  maidens,  189, 

598,  n. 


INDEX. 


645 


Snow,  description  of  a  man  perishing 

in,  98,  589,  n. 
Snowdoun  (Stirling),  247,  602,  n. 
"  Soldier,  Wake,"  Song,  535. 
Somerled,  Lord  of  the  Isles,  371, 616,  n. 
Somerville,  John,  15th  Lord,  367. 
"  Song,"  497. 
Songs  :  — 

Admire  not  that  I  gain'd  the  prize, 
537- 

Ah,  poor  Louise  !  the  live-long  day, 
536. 
*       Allan-a-Dale  has  no  fagot  for  burn- 
ing, 300. 

All  joy  was  bereft  me  the  day  that 
you  left  me,  496. 

An  hour  with  thee !   when  earliest 
day,  536. 

And    whither   would   you  lead   me 
then?  319. 

Assist  me,  ye  friends  of  old  books  and 
old  wine,  523. 

Ave  Maria  !  maiden  mild !  201. 

A  weary  lot  is  thine,  fair  maid,  300. 

A  weary  month  has  wander' d  o'er, 
506. 

Birds  of  omen  dark  and  foul,  531. 

Dinas  Emlinn,  lament ;  for  the  mo- 
ment is  nigh,  494. 

Donald  Caird  's  come  again,  521. 

Dust  unto  dust,  532. 

Enchantress,  farewell,  who  so  oft  has 
decoy'd  me,  522. 

Farewell  to  MacKenneth,  great  Earl 
of  the  North,  505. 

Farewell,   merry   maidens,   to  song 
and  to  laugh,  534. 

Farewell  to  Northmaven,  534. 

From  the  Brown  crest  of  Newark  its 
summons  extending,  509. 

Glowing  with  love,  on  fire  for  fame, 
509- 

God  protect  brave  Alexander,  513. 

Hail  to  the  chief  who  in  triumph  ad- 
vances, 177. 

Hail  to  thy  cold  and  clouded  beam, 
282. 

Hawk  and  osprey  screamed  for  joy, 

447- 
Hear  what  Highland  Nora  said,  512. 
He  is  gone  on  the  mountain,  194. 
Hither  we  come,  538. 
Hurra,  hurra,  our  watch  is  done,  360. 
I   climbed    the  dark    brow  of   the 

mighty  Hellvellyn,  493. 
I  was  a  wild  and  wayward  boy,  316. 
Ill  fares  the  bark  with  tackle  riven, 

448. 
I'll  give  thee,  good  fellow,  a  twelve 

month  or  twain,  532. 
It  chanced  that  Cupid  on  a  season, 

5°9- 
It  was  an  English  ladye  bright,  51. 
It  was  Dunois  the  young  and  brave, 

was  bound  for  Palestine,  508. 
Look  not  thou  on  beauty's  charming, 

53i- 
Lord  William  was   born   in  gilded 

bower,  442. 
Love  wakes  and  weeps,  535. 
MacLeod's  wizard  flag  from  the  grey 

castle  sallies,  520. 
March,  march,  Ettrick  and  Teviot- 

dale,  533. 
Merry  it  is  in  the  good  greenwood, 

207. 
Merrily  swim  we,  the  moon  shines 

bright,  533. 
My  hawk  is  tired  of  perch  and  hood, 

244* 
My  wayward  fate  I  needs  must  plain, 

497' 
Not  faster  yonder  rowers,  might,  169. 
O,  Brignall  banks  are  wild  and  fair, 

296. 


Songs : — 
O,   dread   was  the  time,  and  more 

dreadful  the  omen,  502. 
Oh!    say  not,   my  love,   with    that 

mortified  air,  497. 
O,  hush  thee,  my  babie,  thy  sire  was 

a  knight,  511. 
O,  Lady,  twine  no  wreath  for  me,  314. 
O  listen,  listen,  ladies  gay  !  54. 
O,  lovers'  eyes  are  sharp  to  see,  495. 
O,  low  shone  the  sun  on  the  fair  lake 

of  Toro,  494. 
O,  Maid  of  Isla,  from  the  cliff,  522. 
Once  again,  but  how  changed  since 

my  wanderings  began.  511. 
On  Ettrick  Forest's  mountains  dun, 

522. 
On  Hallow-Mass  Eve, 'ere  you  boune 

ye  to  rest,  529. 
O,  open  the  door,  some  pity  to  show, 

495- 
O,  tell  me,  harper,  wherefore  flow  ? 

501. 
Our  vicar  still  preaches  that  Peter 

and  Poule,  235. 
O,  young  Lochinvar  is  come  out  of 

the  west,  118. 
Pibroch  of  Donuil  Dhu,  512. 
Quake  to  your  foundations  deep,  363. 
Rash  adventurer,  bear  thee  back,  359. 
Red   glows   the    forge   in    Striguil's 

bounds,  494. 
She  maybe  fair,  he  sang,  but  yet,  449. 
Soft   spread    the    southern   summer 

night,  507. 
Soldier,  rest !  thy  warfare  o'er,  166. 
Soldier,  wake  —  the  day  is  peeping, 

535- 
So  sung  the  old  bard  in  the  grief  of 

his  heart,  506. 
Summer-eve  is  gone  and  past,  312. 
Take  these  flowers,  which,   purple 

waving,  492. 
That  day  of  wrath,  that  dreadful  day, 

58. 
The    Druid    Urien   had   daughters 

seven,  453. 
The  Forest  of  Glenmore  is  drear,  492. 
The  heath  this  night  must  be  my  bed, 

198. 
The  last  of  our  steers  on  the  board 

has  been  spread,  526. 
The  moon's  on  the  lake,  and  the 

mist 's  on  the  brae,  513. 
The  sound  of    Rokeby's  woods    I 

hear,  318. 
The  sun  is  rising  dimly  red,  534. 
The  sun  upon  the  lake  is  low,  537. 
The  sun  upon  the  Weirdlaw  Hill,  519. 
The  violet  in  her  greenwood  bower, 

492.  , 
There  is  mist  on  the  mountain,  and 

night  on  the  vale,  530. 
They  bid  me  sleep,  they  bid  me  pray, 

211. 
To  the  Lords  of  Convention  'twas 

Claver'se  who  spoke,  537. 
'Twas  All-souls'  eve,  and   Surrey's 

heart  beat  high,  52. 
'Twas  a  Marechal  of  France,  and 

he  fain  would  honor  gain,  501. 
Twist  ye,  twine  ye  !  even  so,  530. 
Wake,  maid  of  Lorn,  369. 
Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay,  496. 
Wheel  the  wild  dance,  508. 
When  Israel  of  the  Lord  beloved, 

532. 
Whence  the  brooch  of  burning  gold, 

377- 
When   friends  are  met  o'er  merry 

cheer,  538. 
When  the  heathen  trumpets  clang, 

520. 
When  the  tempest's  at  the  loudest, 

537- 


Songs :  1— 

While  the  dawn   on  the  mountain 
was  misty  and  gray,  316. 

Where  shall  the  lover  rest  ?  90. 

Why  weep  ye  by  the  tide,ladie?  512. 

Yes,  thou  may'st  sigh,  536. 
Spain,  Defence  of,  under  the  Invasion 

of  Bonaparte,  603,  n. 

Invasion  of,  by  the  Moors,  603,  n. 

War  with,  in  1625-6,  610,  n. 

Spells,  573,  n. 

Spencer,  Earl,  579,  n. 

Spenser,  Edmund,  284.     Extract  from 

his  Faerie  Qtteene,  569,  n. 
Spirits,  intermediate  class  of,  571,  «., 

588,  «.,  599,  «.,  629,  n. 
Staffa,  Cave  of,  394. 
State  Papers,  628,  n. 
Stirling  Castle,  227,  601,  n. 
Stoddart,  Sir  John,  568,  «. 
Strafford,  Earl  of,  600,  n. 
Strathbogie.     See  Athole. 
"  Sub-Prior,  To  the,"  533. 
Sultaun  Solimaun,  514. 
11  Sun  upon  the  Lake,  The,"  537. 
"Sun  upon   the  Weirdlaw  Hill, 

The,"  519. 
Superstitions,  Popular,  588,   n.      See 

also  "  Fairies,"  "  Spirits." 
Surrey,  Earl  of  (beheaded  in  1546),  52, 

577.  «• 
Swords,  enchanted,  598,  «. 


Taghairm,  a  Highland  mode  of  au- 
gury, 203,  599,  «.,  600,  n. 

Tales  of  Wonder,  Lewis,  565,  «.,  568, 
«.,  625,  «.,  626,  «.,  627,  n. 

"Talisman,"  Mottoes  from  the,  557,. 
558. 

Tanistry,  Irish  custom  of,  611,  n. 

Tantallon  Castle,  119,  127,  591,  «. 

Tecbir,  The,  the  War-cry  of  the  Sara- 
cens, 258,  603,  n. 

Tees,  the  River,  301,  607,  «.,  608,  «• 

Teith,  the  River,  153. 

Themis,  566,  n. 

Thuanus,  628,  n. 

"Thunder  Storm,"  Juvenile  lines 
on  a,  529. 

Time,  187. 

\ and  Tide,  333- 

Tinlinn,  Watt,  story  of,  574,  n. 

"To  a  Lady,"  with  flowers  from  a 
Roman  wall,  492. 

Train,  letter  from,  620,  «. 

Triermain.  See  "  Bridal  of  Trier- 
main." 

— —  family  of,  614,  «. 

Trosachs,  the,  154. 

"Troubadour,  The,"  509. 

"Truth  of  Woman,  The,"  535. 

Tunes,  attachment  to,  on  death-beds, 
601,  n. 

Tunstall,  Sir  Brian,  slain  at  Flodden, 
141,  593,  n. 

"Tweed  River,  On,    533- 

Twisel  Bridge,  138,  593,  n. 

"  Twist  ve,  twine  ye,"  530. 

Tynemouth  Priory,  587,  «. 


U. 


Uam-Var,  mountain,  152,  153,  596>  «• 
Unthank,  chapel  at,  573,  «• 
Urisk,  a  Highland  satyr,  599,  n. 


V. 


Valcyriur,    or 
Slain,"  577,  «. 
Valor,  personification  of,  259. 


Selectors    of    the- 


646 


INDEX. 


Vaux,  family  of,  614,  n. 

Vengeance,  feudal,  a  dreadful  tale  of, 

619,  n. 
Vennachar  Loch,  153. 
*l  Violet,  The,"  492. 
"  Virgil,    Juvenile  Lines  from,  529, 
631,  n. 

W. 

Wallace,  Sir  William,  trial  and  exe- 
cution of,  618,  «. 

"  Wandering  Willie,"  496. 

War,  apostrophe  to,  396. 

"  War-Song  of  Lachlan,  High 
Chief  of  MacLean,"  506. 


Warbeck,  Perkin,  story  of,  583,  n. 

Waterloo,  Battle  of,  423-431,  623,  n. 

Wellington,  Duke  of,  265,  266,  268. 
"  The  Field  of  Waterloo,"  427 
passim;  501,  502. 

Wellington,  Duchess  of,  dedication  of 
"  The  Field  of  Waterloo  "  to,  423. 

"  When  Friends  are  met,"  538. 

"  When  the  Tempest,"  537. 

Whistling  to  raise  a  tempest,  608,  n. 

Whitby  Abbey,  585,  n. 

Whitmore,  John,  Esq.,  etc.,  dedica- 
tion of"  The  Vision  of  Don  Roderick 
to, 2  S3- 
Wild  Huntsman,  The, "470, 624,  n. 

Wilkes,  John,  Esq.,  595,  n. 


"  William  and  Helen,"  467, 624,  n. 

Woman,  apostrophe  to,  144. 

"  Woodstock,"   Mottoes  from,   558, 

559- 
Wordsworth,  William,  Esq.,  quotation 

from ,  585,  n. 
Wynken  de  Worde,  101. 


Z. 

Zaharak,  race  of,  359. 
Zernebock,  445. 

"  Zetland    Fishermen,    Song    of 
the,"  534. 


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